


To the Victors

by FreyaFallen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe, Bellatrix Lestrange is her own warning, Canon Typical Prejudice, Child Abuse, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Forced Breeding, Gaslighting, Good Draco Malfoy, Grooming, Mainly tomione, No Pregnancy, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Romance isn't end goal, Slow Burn, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, bamf Hermione is coming, pseudo-incest vibes, very minor lucius malfoy/bellatrix lestrange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2020-07-28 12:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaFallen/pseuds/FreyaFallen
Summary: Grindewald fell in 1950, and the five years in which he still held sway changed the course of history. Wizarding Britain, terrified at any threat to the Statute of Secrecy, decided in the late 50s to pass the Muggleborn Wizarding Appropriation Act, which took muggleborn children from their parents at the first incidence of accidental magic. Children could then be fostered or adopted by wizarding families, or would live in Wizarding Institutional Houses. Some Pureblood families took things a step further and decided to foster children in case they only had one heir to act as a sibling, companion, and stand-in for punishments deemed too harsh for their own children. If the muggleborn did well, they reasoned, it meant they had earned their place in the wizarding world.Hermione Granger is such a child, chosen at a young age to be Draco Malfoy's companion. She's an ideal muggleborn: polite, intelligent, and magically capable. It isn't until she attends Hogwarts that someone sees the potential in her. She becomes the favorite of a certain professor, who would rather see her embrace her power than subjugate herself.





	1. A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Plot bunny that went crazy. I decided to let it run and watch where it went, so welcome. It'll be a wild ride. And a dark one.
> 
> READ.THE.TAGS.

Narcissa was a woman on a mission. Her black and white hair was pulled back into a sharp, neat twist, head held high, shoulders back. She rapped on the door to her husband’s study and swept in at his call to come in.

“Cissy,” he said, surprise almost turning the name into a question. “Good afternoon, dearest.” He was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk, but came around to lean against the front of the polished solid wood surface. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She straightened herself further, pale blue eyes distancing herself from her husband as she spoke. “It has come to my attention that you used corporal punishment to discipline Draco.” Lucius nodded, arching a black brow. “Are you planning on using such means in the future?”

“It’s effective,” he responded evenly. “Perhaps your sisters would have made something of themselves had your father employed it.”

Her eyes further narrowed. “He’s a delicate boy, Lucius. Need I remind you the circumstances of his birth?”

Her husband’s jaw firmed even as he remembered how his frail wife’s heart had pattered weakly on her birth bed, the child’s breath wheezing desperately. He hadn’t cried, instead whimpering in a frightful way that caused Lucius to worry his heir would die then and there. And they’d lost so many as they tried to bring a child into the world. 

“I won’t have the boy further weakened, Narcissa.” He dragged his eyes across her face, reading something there. “What is it you suggest?”

At that, she sat primly in a cushioned seat across from him, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Some of the Twenty-Eight have taken to fostering an Institution child should they have only one heir, and physically disciplining that child in the place of their own.”

“An Institution child?” He repeated. “From one of the mud huts?”

She tsked at him. “Yes, Lucius. I am suggesting we foster a muggleborn child.” As his expression grew dark, she listed a palm to hold him off, to allow her to say her piece. “It is beneficial in multiple ways. As Draco is still young, he will be attached enough to a child his age this will be effective as a form of punishment. It will also look good, be seen as us doing our part, as it were. If the muggleborn child we take in happens to flourish and prove competent, it is a boon to our name. If not, well… Draco will have a good example as to their inferiority.”

“And if he takes this to mean mudbloods are our equals?”

“Lucius, please,” she said with a soft laugh. “Charity to those less fortunate has never made the haves see the have-nots as equals. The child’s entire life, all of their accomplishments, everything, will be at our sufferance.”

“I don’t like the idea of a mudblood in my home. My father would rollover in his grave.”

“It is a good thing your father died before we ever married,” she said. “Think on it, Lucius. I know this is how your father disciplined you, but you have always been robust. Draco must be coaxed into strength, rather than be born to it.”

Lucius rolled his jaw, then nodded. “I will consider it,” he said at last.

“Thank you,” she murmured, then rose, crossed to him to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek, and left the room. She knew her husband well; he cared for family before all else, though power and social capital were high on his list as well. He would agree.

\---

The building where the mudblood children lived was neither made of mud, nor a hut. Draco was glad not to have to worry about getting dirty, but a part of him also had wanted to see a hut made of mud. Instead, it was almost as large as a manor (not Malfoy Manor, of course), grey brick, block-like, completely fenced in. Draco was six, and his parents wanted a child who would attend Hogwarts the same years as he would, so they followed the Matron of the house up to the second floor.

The mud hut was apparently split up by age; Both the very oldest children and the youngest (both of which they had the smallest number of) were on the first floor, along with classrooms, offices, a small infirmary, kitchen, and meal hall. The second and third floors were bursting with lavatories and dormitories for children not yet old enough to attend Hogwarts. Apparently the fourth floor did for the rest, since they were only at the Institution for a few months out of the year. 

This was, according to his mother, the best Institution in Great Britain. He wasn’t quite sure why, though it had a large library on the second floor. He took special notice of this as the Matron prattled on. She was eager to see a family of such prominence at her Institution, and showed the extent of her facilities. As they stood in the library, she showed them their rare book collection, all donated by families such as theirs, she said. There were four children of an age with Draco, and most of them were in the playroom. 

“We would like to see them,” Narcissa said in a lull of the older woman’s speech. 

Draco tugged gently at her sleeve. “Mother,” he pleaded as he spotted a copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard, “Can I stay here?”

She glanced to her husband, then nodded, and he took off. Once the book was in hand, he searched out a table. He rounded a row of shelves and found one near a high window, but someone was already at it.

This someone had a lot of hair, brown and curly and wild. When she looked up, Draco met a pair of warm, inquisitive eyes that studied him with the same startled curiosity he had. The girl had a smattering of freckles over her nose, and two books open in front of her.

“Hullo,” she said at last. “You can sit here if you’re looking for a place to read.”

He nodded shyly, uncertain of the etiquette of reading beside a mudblood, but slid into the chair across from her.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” the girl informed him. “You must be new here. It’s not so bad, really.”

Draco looked down at himself and his fine robes, then eyed her rather humble clothing. “I’m not a mudblood,” he replied. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

Her dark brows furrowed. “What’s a mudblood?”

“It’s--” he said, struggling to find the words to explain it. “Well, I mean, it’s-- it means you’re not from a proper wizarding family.”

“Oh.” Hermione puzzled over that for a moment, then nodded. “That’s right, I suppose. Mum and dad were non-magical, which is why I had to be taken from them. It wasn’t safe for any of us.” She looked back to her books and flipped a few pages of one, to a section with illustrations of mermaids, then began skimming it for specific pieces, going back and forth between the two.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked as she continued her research.

“I’m comparing muggle stories of magic to magical literature,” she said. “This is Newt Scamander’s book on magical beasts, and this is a book of fairy tales, like Beedle the Bard is for wizards, it’s stories for children.” He leaned over as she pointed at the story she was on. “This is The Little Mermaid, and I’m comparing it to the section on real mermaids.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I thought it would be interesting to see how they differ.” Draco thought about that for a moment and decided it was logical enough, so he turned to his own book.

“If you’re not a -- not going to live here, then why are you here?” the girl asked after they had spent some time in companionable silence. 

“We’re going to foster one of the children,” he answered. “The Malfoys are a prestigious family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. It’s our duty to better the wizarding world, and that means helping those less fortunate than we are, like you.” Draco eyed her once more, and added, “How old are you?”

Hermione seemed a tad put off by his response, if her narrowed lashes were any clue, but she said, “I’m six. How old are you?”

“I’m six too.” He flipped a page, studying the illustrations in this edition, which were more colorful than in his at home. “Mum said we should bring home someone my age, so they’ll start Hogwarts at the same time, and we’ll grow up together.”

“Oh.” She paused in her reading and tapped her lips with a finger. “There are three boys here around my age. There’s Dean, who’s been here as long as I have, and Justin, who came last year. And Kevin only came last week. He’s still getting used to things, so I wouldn’t suggest him.”

“What are they like?”

“Dean is nice, but he rather talks too much about a muggle sport called football, and how different it is from Quidditch. I don’t know how he knows so much about either, or why he cares.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “He should read more. He never seems to care about classes. Justin’s, er, well, he’s nice too I guess.” Draco felt that meant he was anything but. “He and I just don’t get on. And I don’t know Kevin much yet.”

“What about you?” Draco said. “What are you like?”

Hermione blinked her large brown eyes at him owlishly. “I’m a know-it-all, according to the others. I like books and learning. I enjoy going outside getting fresh air too, but I always have a book with me.”

He nodded. He liked learning too, though he’d never been called a know-it-all. “Are you nice?”

She laughed. “I don’t know, you’d have to ask someone else. You can’t ask me if I’m nice or not, because everyone likes to think they’re nice, so I might be lying.”

“I don’t,” he retorted. “I don’t care if I’m nice or not. I don’t have to be as long as I’m smart and business savvy and a good heir.”

“What does that mean, a good heir? I mean, I know what the words mean, but what does it entail?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Entail?”

“What is necessary to be a good heir?” she clarified.

“Oh. I don’t know.” He paused. “Do you know lots of words like that?” Upon her nod, he said, “If you were my friend, you’d tell me all the things you know, right?”

“Yes.”

“That would make me even smarter. I’m already smart, but with two smart brains, I could learn even more,” he reasoned. “That would help make me a good heir. Maybe I should ask for you.”

“Can you even do that? Just ask for me? I’m not a puppy,” Hermione stressed.

Draco smirked. “I’m a Malfoy. Of course I can. Come on, then. Let’s find mother and father and I’ll let them know I’ve chosen you.” He stood, pushing his chair back into the table and holding out his hand. When Hermione hesitated, staring down at her books longingly, he said, “We have loads more books than this at Malfoy Manor. And if we don’t have something, we can easily get it. Come on, then.” Finally, she nodded and took his hand.

He led the girl into the playroom and approached the tall, well-dressed couple as they stood by the Matron, observing children at play.

“Mother, father.” They turned to face him, both of them surprised to see him holding the hand of a small girl. “Hermione, these are Lady Narcissa and Lord Lucius Malfoy, my parents. Mother, father, this is Hermione Granger. She’s quite smart, serious about her studies. I’d like her to be the foster.”

Narcissa gazed down at the girl with atrocious hair, frowning. “Wouldn’t a boy be better, Draco?”

“No, mother,” he said quite seriously. “Hermione’s told me about the boys, and I think she’s smarter than them. If I’m going to have a mudblood, it should be the best one, and not one that talks about football or some such. That’s Hermione.”

The woman turned to her husband, who was studying the small creature thoughtfully. “Are you smart, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, Lord Malfoy,” she responded at once.

“Do you know what the word ‘resilient means?” he asked.

“Able to withstand or recover from difficult conditions; also to recover or spring back to shape,” she quoted. 

“Are you resilient?” pressed the man.

She scrunched up her face as she considered, then nodded. “I think so.”

Lucius peered at his wife from the corner of his eye, then to his son, and back to the girl. “You must be quite sure, Miss Granger. Being our son’s companion means you will have to take on responsibilities that will be difficult. We need someone who can handle being responsible both for herself, and for my son. To displease us will mean punishment, and you’ll bear the brunt of it.”

The girl was not one to answer serious questions without thought, at least. She stood without speaking for a moment, tapping a finger against her lips as she stared past the small family. When she settled her mind, she nodded again and said, “I’m sure.”

Lucius held up his palms to Narcissa, leaving the decision to her. 

“You’re sure, Draco?” said the woman. He nodded solemnly. “Well, then. It’s decided.”


	2. A Place in the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione settles into the Malfoy family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corporal punishment in this chapter.

Life at Malfoy Manor was nothing like life at the Institution, which was nothing like living with her parents in the muggle world.  


Hermione was entranced by the portraits of Malfoys past (whom she didn't know Lucius had had a word with lest they scream obscenities or insults all night and day), and idyllic scenery. Paintings and pictures at home hadn't moved, and the Institution hadn't much in the way of decor. 

The grounds were manicured, blossoming, and seemingly endless. During the day, she and Draco could often be found running along the little lake and terrorizing the peacocks, or under sweeping trees as they took turns reading books of mutual interest. 

Home with her parents had been, as far as she remembered, much less opulent and much more cosy. They'd had a little house with a little yard. Hermione had had her own little room, though she often slept between her parents in their much larger bed. Helen, she remembered her mother's name was. Helen was beautiful, or perhaps it was just her childlike adoration that made it so. However, even her father had said she was a beauty worth fighting for. Hermione had her brown eyes and brown hair, which was streaked through with dark blonde from the sun currently. She couldn't remember her father's name, but she had his curls. He'd kept them fairly short, dark hair too wild when longer. But he'd tugged her curls affectionately and said they suited her. 

At least she knew they were all Grangers. The Institution didn't change names, nor did fostering. 

The Grangers all loved books, of that she was sure. The two years in the Institution had dimmed much, but she knew the evenings cuddled between her parents while they took turns reading to her weren't imagined. Her parents were loving, warm, kind, and intelligent. 

The Malfoys were not warm and loving. Certainly, Narcissa doted on her son, but in her own way. She kissed his cheek, embraced him, called him pet names. Lucius was not unkind to his son, but he was firm and his embraces were fewer. Both of them gave him whatever he wanted that money could buy without a thought. 

Thus it was that Hermione also wanted for little in the way of material possessions. She had a nice bedroom that, while not as lavish as Draco's suite, was fitted with everything she could need. It had a bed large enough that it would suit her still as she grew, a wardrobe, a dresser, a trunk for travelling, a mirror to ensure she was presentable. She had her own bathroom as well, though it was beside her room rather than adjoined to it. She rather thought this little wing had been servants quarters when human servants were in fashion. 

Draco was magnanimous with his belongings. His toys were hers, and if he didn't want to share, he asked for another so she could have whatever it was too. 

"You're  _ my _ companion," he once said, as though that explained everything. 

It did, she supposed. The Malfoys were possessive people, and liked their things to reflect their high social status. They enjoyed when others envied them. Hermione, as the Malfoy family foster, was well-kept. Narcissa taught her how to manage her curls, and bought her pretty clothes in rich materials, and she looked every inch the proper young lady.

She spent her days with Draco and they passed mostly pleasantly, as Draco was rarely disciplined, so her time passed relatively easily. Until the day Draco broke his broom and pitched a fit.

Lucius came out from his office to see his son holding the pieces of his broom and screaming at his mother that he didn’t want a new one, he wanted his broom fixed. And he wanted it now.

It was one of the few things Draco hadn’t insisted on getting two of, since Hermione resolutely refused to fly. 

“What’s all this?” the man said as he surveyed the scene before him.

“Draco is fussing because he’s broken his broom,” Narcissa explained calmly. The boy was silent now, regarding his father with cheeks still red, the broken end of his broom still in-hand, even while splinters fell on the marble floor. “He was flying in the house,” she added.

He frowned at the boy. “Draco, you know you’re not allowed to fly in the house.” Draco nodded. “And throwing tantrums is not becoming behavior of a Malfoy.”

The boy blushed and looked down at the broom remnants. “I was being careful, father. I would have gone outside, but Hermione wanted to get a book and she was taking too long, and--”

Lucius raised a hand. “Whatever the reason, those are the rules and you’re to obey them.” He turned his attention to the girl now. “Miss Granger, Draco, follow me to my study.” He held the door open for them, the two children dragging their feet, Draco especially sullen, and Hermione anxiously wringing her hands. 

He observed them, noting Draco’s eyes darting at the girl with something akin to worry. The girl had her head down, as if trying to avoid notice. It was the first time Hermione would receive punishment for Draco’s wrongdoing, and Lucius was curious to see whether it would work as intended. That he’d taken to blaming her as he explained himself didn’t bode well. However, Lucius had promised his wife he would try.

With that thought, he said, “Miss Granger, please lay your hands on my desk and lean forward.” Her eyes widened to saucers, but she obeyed without hesitation. Lucius considered her uncomfortably. The girl lived under his home, but it felt strange to be disciplining her this way. Still, he realized he could not treat her any differently than he would have his son. “Lift your skirt.”

Her hands flinched on the desk, then froze for a moment. 

“Now, if you would.”

She hastily gripped the soft blue material and hoisted it up until Lucius bade her stop. He looked over to Draco, drew him to stand so he could see each hit, and said, “This is what will happen when you do something wrong from now on, Draco. You won’t be touched, but Miss Granger will suffer in your stead. Do you understand?” When the boy nodded, Lucius steeled himself and began to lay hits on her backside.

She stiffened at the first one, and by the third, he could hear her sniffling. He tried to remind himself that this was beneficial for both children-- Draco would learn his lesson, and Miss Granger was receiving everything a child could ask for and more, considering her blood status. By the tenth and final blow, he had nearly convinced himself.

He faced his son. “Now, Draco. What have you learned?”

The boy’s eyes were red rimmed as though he’d been the one hit, and his cheeks burned with shame. “Don’t fly in the house, and don’t-- don’t throw fits,” he said in a voice that threatened to break. 

Lucius nodded. “Good. Now go on, both of you. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Hermione dropped her skirt and shakily crossed to the door, where Draco hurried to meet her.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” the boy said, hands reaching out as if to embrace her, but waffling as he realized his affections might not be welcome.

The girl wiped her forearm across her face. “It’s alright, Draco.” She smiled comfortingly at him, though there was a sad edge to it. “I’m resilient, right?”

“Right,” he murmured, taking her hand in his.

That first time had been especially strange to all participants, but it grew into just the way of things over time. Lucius was loath to admit it at first, but finally confided to his wife after a year had passed that Draco seemed to take punishments for Hermione to heart more than he ever had his own. 

“I told you it would work out,” Narcissa told him, a hand laying fondly on his cheek. “She is a surprisingly good influence on him, and more intelligent than I would have thought possible.”

She was everything the Malfoy family had believed mudbloods weren’t; she was a quick learner, and retained information once she had it. Moreover, she was thoughtful, logical. 

Narcissa and Lucius had indulged the children once by letting them try a few simple spells. Draco had wanted to try dueling spells, and Narcissa had nearly been apoplectic at the boy’s destructive attempts. Hermione had asked after a spell to undo his damage, and (using Lucius’ own wand; Narcissa’s unicorn hair didn’t favor her the way his dragon heartstring did) once taught the proper movements and incantations, she set about trying it out. On her third attempt wielding the wand that was ridiculously long for her, a vase that had shattered in Draco’s rampage collected itself back together.

“The exception proves the rule,” Abraxas Malfoy’s portrait had murmured then. 

Lucius and Narcissa had both nodded at that, the latter drawing herself up with a small, prideful smile.

After that, she had insisted the girl attend any social event Draco did. If they had an exceptional mudblood, they should show her off as they would with any other exceptional thing they owned. It became common knowledge that the Malfoys favored their little mudblood and would bring her along to any child-friendly event. And the other purebloods acknowledged that the girl was well-mannered, and seemed intelligent enough. She was obedient, quiet, a model of how mudbloods should behave among their betters. She even called those fostering her Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa.

The only thing anyone could think to say negative was that she seemed a touch spirited when it came to knowledge, though that wasn’t much of a fault as those things went. And Draco Malfoy had become a bit less whinging and a little more gracious since they took her in (though no one would say that to Narcissa’s face).

By the time the two children received their Hogwarts letters, the family could hardly imagine life without Hermione Granger constantly at Draco’s side, least of all the two children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to spend forever on their childhood, so I made this chapter kind of gloss over the years. I'll be mentioning key points throughout their time at Hogwarts and over the breaks, but many key plot points happen in later years.


	3. Of Wands and Wonders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts letters arrive!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at work already have the next three chapters for my other story written, so I figured I'd explore Hermione and Draco as children a little more. This chapter is a bit fluffy.

Draco Malfoy had the perfect life, charmed by Fate itself it seemed. He’d been born into an aristocratic Pureblood family to the most beautiful couple on Earth. His mother loved him with unconditional love like only a mother could provide. And if his father wasn’t around much, the man clearly cared for him.

If that wasn’t enough, he had Hermione. From the moment he’d met her, they’d been glued together. She was nothing like his other friends, who all came from families much like his (if less wealthy less powerful). She didn’t bother putting on airs around him since they lived together, and there was no undercurrent of rivalry in anything but academics. That area was hardly competitive either, since both were intelligent students, quick learners. If Hermione was perhaps a bit more diligent and quick to learn than he was, she always shared what she knew. The only other drawback was that she could be a bit of a know-it-all.

The morning their Hogwarts letters came, she practically glowed as the owl dropped an envelope with her name on it. She never received mail, and Draco only did for his birthday or holidays, so he was excited as well. They tore into their letters and the breakfast table was silent as they scanned the writing under the school’s letterhead and headmaster’s name.

_ Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy, _

_ We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry . Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. _

_ Term begins on 1 September . We await your owl by no later than 31 July . _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Albus Dumbledore _

_ Deputy Headmaster _

Excitement thrilled through him. It was finally time; logically, he’d known this day was coming. He’d just had his eleventh birthday, afterall, and Hermione had turned eleven last September. Still, to hold the letter in his hand was something else entirely. He skimmed the second page, looking up to grin at his companion. 

“I’m gonna try out for Quidditch and see if I can make captain, like my father,” he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled. “You can’t try out for Quidditch as a first year. You can’t even bring your  _ broom _ this year.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

The girl jabbed a finger at the parchment in his hand. “It says so right there. Besides, there hasn’t been a player our age in a century!” At Draco’s questioning look, she said, “I read about it in Hogwarts: A History. Honestly, Draco, you still haven’t read it yet?”

“I’m waiting until we’re there,” he explained. “Some of us like experiencing things as we learn about them.”

“Don’t you want to be prepared?”

“I am prepared; mother’s told me loads about Hogwarts,” he said evenly. “I’m just not a swot like you.”

“I’m not a swot,” she replied.

“You feel like you need to learn everything; you’re a swot.”

“If I’m a swot, then so are you.”

“Boys can’t be swots,” he retorted. “When boys learn things, they’re just smart.”

Her cheeks flushed and she glared at him. “That’s sexist. If girls can be swots, so can boys.”

“Fine,” he admitted, adding teasingly, “But you’re the biggest swot of them all.”

“Are you two bickering again?” They both jumped at the smooth voice. Usually they head the tap of Lucius Malfoy’s cane against the marble floors preceding him, but he’d caught them unawares this time. 

“We got our Hogwarts letters,” Draco declared, waving his.

The man was suitably distracted and took his son’s letter in hand to skim over it. “It seems Dumbledore is still hanging onto his deputy position. The man is ancient, he hasn’t a hope of becoming headmaster by now. I don’t know why Horace doesn’t replace him.”

Narcissa Malfoy finally looked up from the book she’d been reading while the children ate breakfast. “Albus Dumbledore still has friends in places; no one is likely to forget his duel against Grindewald. Besides, he  _ is _ brilliant.”

“There are other, younger brilliant men teaching at Hogwarts,” he reminded his wife, who shrugged. “Well, it seems you’ll need to make a Diagon Alley run, Cissa.”

“Perhaps we’ll go today,” she said. “We had nothing pressing scheduled.”

“Good. You can tell me all about it later; I have pressing business at the ministry today.” He bade them goodmorning and strode out, calling after his personal house elf.

As the lord of the manor left earshot, the two children returned to their conversation with glittering eyes and hushed excitement.

\---

Hermione had been to Diagon Alley before, of course; Narcissa took her and Draco there almost every time she went, unless she was meeting for tea with other Pureblood socialites. However, this time she would be leaving with a wand of her own. It had taken all of her willpower not to beg Draco to ask his parents to take them early. When she’d turned eleven, she’d secretly hoped he would. When  _ he’d _ turned eleven, she’d expected it. She suspected the only reason why Draco hadn’t was worry that his father would be displeased.

Lucius Malfoy’s displeasure was the only thing Draco feared. It was bad enough to upset one’s father, but Lucius’ aggravation could become Hermione’s pain. Every time Hermione took a punishment because of Draco’s actions, the boy was consumed with guilt. He would apologize profusely, offer her sweets or trinkets, anything he could think of to soothe her. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, and how careful he was not to provoke his father’s wrath, but she sometimes had to remind him that that was why his family brought her in. 

She knew her place after five years with the Malfoys. While they didn’t treat her badly, she was not their daughter. She was the companion of their son, the “whipping boy.” She’d stumbled upon the term in an old French history book in the Malfoy library. Both children were tutored in French, though it was one area where Draco superseded her. He’d heard it from the cradle, whereas she hadn’t started learning until she was with the Malfoys. 

Whipping boys were apparently stand-ins for princes who couldn’t be disciplined directly by their teachers. In return for taking the brunt of the prince’s punishments, they were educated and raised among nobility. She’d tried to find out more about the custom, but there had only been one reference, and that one bereft of much information.

Hermione also knew that, while the Malfoys didn’t treat her badly because of her blood, they still believed it was a mark against her (albeit one that made her presence possible in their manor). Lucius Malfoy particularly sometimes stared at her as though wondering where this strange mongrel had come from. And, while Narcissa never used the term, she’d heard  _ him _ refer to those like herself as “mudbloods” more than once. 

Draco had long since stopped using the term.

Whether she deserved her position in life or not, Hermione accepted it as best she could, and was determined to use it to her advantage. She was sure that she’d prove herself at Hogwarts.

The bell above the door chimed as the three of them, two Malfoys and one Granger, entered the shop. Mr. Ollivander, whom Hermione had never met, immediately appeared on the staircase to the left. 

He graced them with a smile, and Hermione felt herself returning it without thought. Mr. Ollivander was old, and had mutton chops that she was fairly certain hadn’t been fashionable even among wizards for some time. There was something otherworldly about him, standing there in his dusty clothes, amid the dusty boxes of wands. He seemed as though her stood between two worlds, but the weight of his gaze shot straight through to the heart of things. 

“Narcissa Black, black walnut, fourteen inches, unicorn hair core.” The man then directed his gaze to the two children. “This must be your son,” Ollivander said, eyes lighting on Draco.”

The older witch nodded. “Draco Malfoy, yes. He and his companion Hermione have come to get their wands.”

When his gaze landed on Hermione alone, she had to suppress the urge to squirm. He came forward and shook all of their hands, his eyes boring into her as he introduced himself. “Hermione Granger,” she said as his weathered, leathery hand took hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” 

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Granger.” Ollivander then stood back, looking from one child to another. “Hmmm. Which of you will be going first?”

“Can I?” asked Draco, his youthful voice nearly vibrating with energy. Hermione merely smiled and held herself back, looking on as her friend was measured in ways that made sense (the length of his hand, forearm, arm to wrist) and ways that didn’t (the distance between his nostrils, the length of his face, the circumference of his ankle). 

“Let’s see, let’s see,” murmured Ollivander as he skimmed the wall beside them, a finger running over boxes as he considered. “We’ll try this one first. Eleven inches, beech, dragon heartstring. Slightly bendy.” He held out the wand in its open box.

Hermione watched, fascinated, breath held as Draco’s fingertips brushed it. When the boy waved it, she was disappointed to see nothing happen.

“Not the one then,” said the man, putting it back as that faraway glimmer returned to him. “Acacia, ten and three quarter inches, unyielding, dragon heartstring.”

Again, there was nothing. Nor was there with the next one, an alder wand that was “surprisingly bendy,” nor the next, which was a “springy” beech in opposition to the first.

The wand maker hummed to himself, considering. He faced them, eyeing first Draco and then Narcissa. “Perhaps…” He pulled out another box and presented it to the boy. “Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair. Reasonably pliant.”

She could read it on Draco’s face the instant he touched it. This was the one. And when he waved it over his head, golden flecks shimmered in the air around him, making him positively glow in the dim light of the shop.

“Excellent!” cried Ollivander. “A lovely match.” He nodded, then turned that sharply focused attention toward Hermione. “Now, Miss Granger.” Her own measuring was shorter, as he seemed to have an idea where to start with her. Before the measuring tape could begin taking any strange dimensions, he had his first pick. “Rosewood, ten inches, unicorn hair. Pliant.”

The wand, though it felt nice enough in her hand, did nothing. He had another at the ready before she’d set it down.

“Pear, nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring, slightly bendy.” 

She thought she felt something, but whatever it was wasn’t enough for Mr. Ollivander. He examined her once more, eyes narrowing as he seemed to whisper things to himself. The moment stretched, and she shuffled her feet. He nodded, pulling out another wand and opening up the box. “This one, I think. Vine, ten and three quarter inches, dragon heartstring. Resilient.”

_ This _ was it. She could feel it even before she touched it, and her magic seemed to surge through her as she held the wand aloft. Even before she’d started the arc of her wave, it was showering them with red light that twinkled brightly as it fell to the floor. 

The rest of the trip was far less interesting, though Hermione was on a cloud, feeling unusually whole with her wand in-hand. She would have liked to spend more time at Flourish and Blotts, but there were more books than she could ever read at Malfoy Manor. She didn’t even have to be there for anything other than her wand and her robe fittings, since Narcissa just bought the best of everything for the two children without bothering to look at the rest. 

“Mother,” Draco implored as they approached the end of their excursion, “can I get a snake? I can take a familiar to Hogwarts. I promise I’ll take good care of it.”

Hermione tutted. “You can’t bring a snake with you.”

“Says who?”

“Says the letter we received.” She further explained, “It said you can bring a toad  _ or _ a cat  _ or  _ an owl. And that’s all.”

He frowned. “Who would want a  _ toad _ as a familiar?”

Hermione shrugged. “Who would want a  _ snake _ ?” was her retort.

Draco rolled his eyes, playfully bumping her with his shoulder. “You’ll have a snake soon enough; I’m going to be sorted into Slytherin.”

“How could you know that?” she demanded.

“I’m a Malfoy,” he drawled. “And a Black. Both houses are notoriously Slytherin.”

As they reached the Apparition point, Narcissa held her hands out to the children. “You never know, Draco,” she said slyly. “I had a cousin who got sorted into Gryffindor.”

The horror on his face spoke volumes. 

\--

They were lying in the garden an hour later, heads beside one another, bodies splayed out in opposite directions. Hermione sighed and set aside her copy of  _ The Standard Book of Spells. _

“What’s wrong?” asked her friend, turning his face toward her after flattening her curls enough to see the downturn of her mouth. 

“I’m worried about the Sorting Ceremony,” she confided in a hushed tone. “The only person I really know is you. And I don’t think Slytherin is the right house for me.”

“No, probably not,” he reluctantly agreed. He didn’t mention the other people she’d know; Blaise Zabini (who’d been his best friend before Hermione came into his life), Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle-- they were all Purebloods and probably bound for Slytherin as well. He swallowed thickly, realizing he didn’t like the idea of Hermione being alone, in another house. Without him.

“What if--” she knew this was a foolish fear, but it worried her all the same. “What if I don’t get sorted into any house?”

Draco laughed, immediately stifling it as she directed a glare his way. “You’ll be fine, Hermione. Besides, everyone knows Hufflepuff will take anyone. Even little know-it-all brats.”

“I doubt Hufflepuff would take  _ anyone _ ,” she said. “Can you imagine Gregory Goyle as a Hufflepuff?”

They both giggled at that. When their laughter had fallen away, Draco reached toward her. She accepted his hand, and they lay there like that for some time.

“You know, if you’re so worried about it, maybe we can try to find a way to get into the same house?” he offered. 

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. You’re my best friend, Hermione.” He gave her hand a light squeeze, which she returned, and they fell into a comfortable silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the relationship tags as they currently stand seem weird. That's partially there as a warning. I'm still working out relationships that will develop over the course of the story.
> 
> Also, you can start seeing some of the changes in this AU now, other than the law. 
> 
> Draco may seem OOC, but I think I'm keeping him to the core of who he is. At his core, he worries about living up to the Malfoy name, and cares deeply for his family. With Hermione as a companion, I think he'd be a little kinder to those who are not pure blooded. Also, since there was no first Voldy war, Lucius Malfoy was never looked upon with suspicion. He has even more political and business happenings than canon, so he's around less often.
> 
> Not sure when the next chapter will come out; probably within the week.
> 
> TTFN.


	4. I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sorting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's DND day. Just a reminder that this is an AU. Growing up in different circumstances changes people.

Hermione was nearly vibrating with nervous energy. The castle was everything Hogwarts: A History had promised and more. She and Draco had kept to themselves during the train ride, both silently worrying they’d soon be separated and kept apart by the Pureblood ideals of Slytherin. Draco had vowed to her that he would never turn his back on her, but neither of them suggested looking for others they knew when boarding the Express.

The whole affair of getting to the school was nearly magical as the castle itself, as their first glimpse of it had been via a little rowboat as they crossed a vast lake on the grounds. Albus Dumbledore himself had met them at the entrance to the castle to welcome them to their new home.

“Hogwarts is now your home, and you should think of your house as a family,” he’d told them before the sorting ceremony. “But always remember, though your house often reflects something integral to who you are, it does not define you. You are more than your house values.”

Draco had whispered to her, “Father says he’s always favored Gryffindors, and actively dislikes Slytherins.” She’d hushed him, shaking her head.

And now they were hand-in-hand in the Great Hall, staring around with wide eyes like all the other first years. Clouds rolled throughout the ceiling, occasionally blocking out stars where they winked above the floating candles that lit the large room. The hundreds of students seated at the four long tables were chattering away and the din was fairly intimidating. Hermione and the rest were just waiting.

There, in the space between the house tables and the head table, sat a three-legged stool atop which tattered pointed hat perched. She frowned as everyone’s attention turned toward it, then nearly gasped as a seam among the repairs opened up and the hat began to sing. 

_"Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,_

_But don’t judge on what you see,_

_I’ll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There’s nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can’t see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you’ve a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You’ll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don’t be afraid!_

_And don’t get in a flap!_

_You’re in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I’m a Thinking Cap!_

“When I call your name,” Dumbledore said as the last note finished, “you will come forward and put on the Sorting Hat. Abbot, Hannah.”

A trembling girl stepped forward and sat on the stool. It wasn't long before the old hat somehow opened that strange mouth of its and called out, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Alphabetical,” Hermione stated, eyeing Draco. “That means I’ll be sorted first.” She wiped her free hand on her robes, the other slippery with their shared sweat, but she didn't want to let go quite yet. He must have felt the same, because he gave her palm a small squeeze.

“How do you think it works?” He asked.

She stared at it speculatively. “The song indicates it’s sentient and has some telepathic abilities, mind reading. Perhaps you discuss with it what house suits you best? It would have a guess if it can read your mind.”

The two of them were distracted as the elderly wizard’s voice rang out, “Crabbe, Vincent.” 

The burly boy had hardly sat when the hat cried, “SLYTHERIN!”

“That’s about right,” said Draco.

“He’s not very cunning though,” Hermione responded. “The hat has to take into account more than traits then.”

“Slytherin has always favored Purebloods. That’s where Father was. All my family for the most part.”

She nodded, but her heart was now in her throat as there weren’t many letters ahead of ‘G.’ Hermione was torn; part of her wanted to beg the hat to put her in Slytherin, where she was sure Draco would go. Another was curious where it would want to place her. Wit and learning were certainly her strong suits; Hermione had always prided herself on her intelligence and diligent use of such. She liked to think she was loyal, but Hufflepuff didn’t seem to fit. Gryffindor, though…

Hermione had never seen herself as particularly brave, but a part of her yearned to show she could be, given the opportunity. Daring and nerve were something to aspire to, and chivalry evoked the idea of doing right. She had seen much injustice in her own life.

Gregory Goyle was another Slytherin, and suddenly Hermione was up. 

She extracted her hand from Draco’s, untangling their perspiration-drenched digits and wiping it on her robe. Her chin was high as she crossed the floor, intent on showing those watching that she belonged here as much as anyone else. Hermione carefully lifted the worn hat, sitting primly on the stool with her ankles crossed, just as Narcissa had taught her, and pulled on the hat.

The wide brim immediately hid her vision and the shifting, giggling, whispering noises from the Great Hall dimmed around her.

“Hello there,” said a friendly voice in her ear. It was the same that had been calling out houses as she watched. “Quite a mind you’ve got here.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, wondering at the strangeness of speaking to a sentient hat on her head. Despite having lived in the magical world for most of her life, it sometimes struck her just how awesome magic truly was. “And hello as well.”

The hat chuckled. “Polite. But I’d expect no less considering who your caretakers are. You are quite out of place, you know. Ahhh, I see you do.”

“The Malfoys have been kind to me,” she murmured slightly defensively.

“I can see your fondness for the boy, but you know how wrong the reasoning for your being there is,” it responded. She nodded solemnly, wondering if it could sense her agreement. “I can. Now, let’s get on to sorting you. This is already going to be a tough job without discussing your situation. As I see it, you have two houses that fit well for you, Miss Granger. It’s really about what you want to value and who you want to be.”

“Could I possibly--” she began, heart yearning to stay with her friend.

“Miss Granger, I’m sorting you, not Mr. Malfoy. You’re cunning, I can see. And you have ambition and resourcefulness, no doubt. But those things are not what stands out about you most. Those are innate to you. Besides, that den of snakes is no place for you; you should be somewhere that brings out your best, and Slytherin would likely lead you to bitterness.”

Hermione frowned. “What houses do you think, then?”

“I’m certain you’ve an idea.”

“Ravenclaw.” It didn’t need to be a question; anyone who had known the girl for five minutes could see her love of books and learning.

“Of course. The other?”

“Oh, well…” She fidgeted a touch. “Really?”

“Really,” the hat confirmed. “You might not see it, but you are daring. You dared to be yourself even when others called you bookish and boorish. You dared to befriend a stranger in the library. You dare to stand beside the Malfoy boy every time you accompany him into Pureblood society.”

“I’m doing what I must,” she insisted.

“Oh,” said the hat, and she could hear the soft smile in its voice, “you do much more than that, Miss Granger. But let me pose to you the question: What do you want?”

“For my house? My time at Hogwarts? Life?” She wanted to clarify, as this would impact her house, perhaps her entire life course.

“Hmm, there’s that mind of yours at work.” It sounded amused. “Let’s try again, shall we? What do you want most? If you could do anything, what would it be?”

Hermione’s heart caught in her throat, eyes growing warm. That question struck her to the core, where the secret desire she had never said aloud lay. “I want to change this world. I want us not to have to live this way.”

“Us?”

“Muggleborns,” she breathed. 

“It will be a tough fight, fraught with obstacles and enemies,” it warned. 

“Yes,” she murmured, sorrow heavy in her voice. “I know. Nearly impossible.”

“Nearly,” the hat agreed. “But you’re braver than you believe, Miss Granger. I know what you are. You are a true--

“GRYFFINDOR!”

She nearly stumbled off the stool in surprise. The table of students with their red and gold ties cheered overwhelming, all of their cries combining into a roar worthy of a pride of lions. She was met with pats on the back and welcomes and smiles. A pair of ginger boys with identical faces patted her shoulders at the same time and introduced themselves such that she was unsure of their names-- what they said sounded made up. Gred? Who was named Gred?

As Hermione settled in and the students around her turned back to the sorting, she sought out Draco. He met her gaze with eyes so forlorn she suddenly regretted not trying harder to push her way into Slytherin.

\---

It couldn’t have possibly been worse, he thought. The Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry went back to the start of the school and the feud between the founders. Hermione and Draco had enough to contend with, what with Hermione being muggleborn and Draco being a Pureblood of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He’d always known he would be a Slytherin and to see his best friend sitting among the lions was a blow to his heart. 

Hermione was staring back at him, her face crumbled in apology. Draco had hoped she was talking the hat into placing her in Slytherin when time kept ticking past. Hers had been the longest sorting so far. He’d been so sure if anyone could, it would be her.

There was nothing for it now. Draco had to figure out a way to keep their friendship strong, whatever may come.

Theo Nott elbowed him slightly and pulled Draco from his ruminations. “Longbottom’s been up there nearly as long as your mudblood.”

Draco scowled at the slur, but turned his attention back to the main event. He knew who Neville Longbottom was, but hadn’t personally met him since the Longbottoms didn’t care for the Malfoys and vice versa. The soft boy was nearly shaking on the stool and everyone was whispering at the long silence. Even the professors were talking amongst themselves.

When the hat cried, “GRYFFINDOR!” A hush fell over the Great Hall. Then the table of lions went wild to welcome their new cub.

Longbottom meant that Draco’s turn was coming. He still hadn’t thought of anything. He was starting to panic a bit at the thought of them in rival houses. There had to be something he could do.

When his name was finally called, Draco’s heart was beating at a hum in his chest. He imagined that in another reality he sat confidently, sure of his house and himself. Now, he sat shakily and put on the musty old hat.

“Ah, the famous Mr. Malfoy,” said the hat.

“Famous?” Draco had no idea what the hat meant.

“Miss Granger thinks highly of you,” it clarified. “She tried to convince me she was a Slytherin.” The last was said with a touch of amusement. So she had tried. That was something. Somehow it didn’t comfort him. “Ah. You’re worried what it will do, you in Slytherin and she in Gryffindor.”

“She’s my best friend,” he said simply.

“You’ve always known you were a Slytherin at heart,” the hat replied. He nodded. “You have a thirst to prove yourself, especially to your father. You are intelligent, resourceful. You’d be nearly a lord in Slytherin, a true snake among them.”

“Yes,” he said, heart heavy in his chest. 

“You don’t want that?” 

Draco had thought he did until he realized there was no way to have that and maintain his friendship with Hermione. He still wanted to please his father and show the man he was a worthy heir, but Hermione had slowly become the most important person in his life. She was with him through everything. The times she’d been punished, she was as likely to hold and comfort him as he was her. “If I was in Slytherin, would I lose her?" 

“It depends,” the hat said. “It would make things harder. Muggleborns aren’t seen in such a good light there.”

“Could I be in Gryffindor?” he hesitantly asked.

“There is something brave within you, Draco, but it’s a small and malnourished thing. Perhaps in time, but…” The hat left the rest unsaid. For now, Draco was a coward. He knew that. 

“You value your friendship with Hermione so much you would join the house you’ve been raised to see as rival?” 

“If it helped.”

“Hmmm. There is perhaps another house. Not Gryffindor but one that would never look down on you for an inter-house friendship, nor with someone who is muggleborn,” it said slowly, as if deliberating whether to disclose this.

Something like hope lit in his chest. “Really?”

“You won’t be a little lord there, you understand.”

“Yes.”

“Is your friendship with her worth the possible ridicule of your friends? Family?”

That was a terrifying thought. However, he thought of Hermione and could only bring himself to one answer. He swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

“Very well,” the hat said after a pregnant pause. “Knowing the value of friendship is certainly a defining characteristic of--”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*


	5. Help will always be given to those who deserve it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. We meet some familiar faces and the two besties have a chat with Albus Dumbledore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have officially finished writing my other fic (Deal with the Devil). While I'm still updating that one until it's finished, this one can now take priority.

The morning before classes Hermione and Draco walked into the Great Hall together. They were both early risers, so there weren’t many other students up and about then. Hermione surreptitiously glanced around and slid into the seat across from her friend, wondering if she was perhaps breaking a rule by sitting at the table of a house other than her own. When no one looked askance at the pair, she let out a breath and began to fill her plate.

“We’ve only Herbology together on Wednesday,” Draco winged as he studied their timetables. 

Hermione shrugged. “We’ll just meet every day after classes. Besides, we’ll get to choose classes in our third year, and we can choose the same ones; if they’re small enough, all the houses are taught together.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “That’s two years away though!”

“Is it? I wasn’t aware.”

She looked from her eggs when Draco sighed and slumped into his seat. “I’d have been better off in Slytherin. It’s where the hat wanted to send me, you know. We’d have more classes together and father wouldn’t disown me.”

“Lord Lucius won’t disown you, Draco. You're his only heir and he loves you besides.” Hermione considered him, her warm eyes roving her friend. “How did you get put into Hufflepuff?”

His face burned red and he mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s alright, you know,” she told him. “Hufflepuff is an upstanding house. It’s also closest to the kitchens, so you can more easily get sweets.”

The corners of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. “I do like sweets. Though mother promised to send chocolate throughout the year. I made her promise enough for you too.”

“You’re always so kind to me,” she said, returning his smile with a bright one of her own. “Generosity of spirit is a trait valued by Hufflepuffs, you know.”

Draco sneered at her. “I’m generous with _you_. Only because otherwise you’d be insufferable. So it’s really selfish.”

“Prat.” She gently kicked at his foot and his sneer became a grin. 

The two of them were eating and discussing possibilities for their first few lessons when owl post came. There was a small package for Draco that Hermione had no doubt was from Narcissa. The boy plucked the small envelope from the top, breaking the seal and immediately reading. He didn’t notice the other letter with his name. Hermione had a twin of it, the same purple ink in the same pleasant writing.

She opened it curiously to find Hogwarts stationary and a short missive.

_Ms. Granger,_

_I would be obliged should you and Mr. Malfoy come to my office after classes this evening. You should have time between that and dinner. I will not require much of your time._

_Regards,_

_Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore_

_Deputy Headmaster_

“What’s that?” Draco had paused in his picking through the package to ask.

“You’ve one too. Why not read it?”

He rolled his eyes but pushed a few chocolates her way. “Those all have those weird fillings you like.” She eyed the brightly wrapped candies, smiling and sorting through them as Draco read his own note.

“What do you suppose he wants?” 

“I don’t know-- Draco!” He paused right as he was about to plop a small truffle into his mouth. “You can’t eat chocolate during breakfast.”

“Who’s going to stop me?” He retorted.

“I’ll tell your mother. That’s ghastly.”

He giggled in a decidedly undignified way. “You’ll tell mother on me? Really? What’ll she do, tell _you_ not to have dessert for a month?”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Don’t blame me when you develop cavities,” Hermione sang.

The pair of them walked out of the Great Hall bumping shoulders and still laughing as they sought the staircases where they would part ways, one going up and the other headed into the dungeons.

Hermione entered the Potions classroom and took a seat up front, pulling her textbook and parchment out before setting her inkwell in one corner, deftly holding the quill she’d prepared this morning. She was nervous, stomach tumbling as she tried to ignore the tingling sensation that she was doing something wrong. She wished Draco had gotten into Gryffindor or that she’d been sorted after him, because she was sure she could have talked her way into whatever house he got into (so long as it wasn’t Slytherin).

If only they’d known beforehand, they could have figured it out together.

There was no use fretting over it now, so she dated the top of her paper and waited for the professor to arrive, seats around her slowly filling with fellow first years.

She was frowning at the board before them when the door opened with bang, commanding words following as every student turned to watch the thin, sallow man with lank black hair striding through the room. “There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.” As he stood before the lectern, her stomach flipped in fear. He had black eyes and a stern face as he gazed out over them. “For the precious few who possess the predisposition... I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.”

Hermione was captivated. She held her quill poised above her inkwell, stopped in midmotion as she went to ink it by this man’s

“Then again, given the innate cockiness some of you have no doubt been born into…” Those dark eyes flickered over to one of her classmates, a rather runty boy with dark hair and green eyes. “My expectations are not high.”

Despite the professor’s clear irritation with teaching students in general, Hermione squirmed in her seat, eager to begin. There was something about Professor Snape that made her certain she would learn much in his classes.

They sat together at lunch, though another Gryffindor had called after her, “Oi! Way to show house loyalty, Granger!” 

She rolled her eyes at that. “Weasley doesn’t like me because I’ve actually read our books and know something,” she informed Draco in that tone he associated with Hermione in the classroom. 

“Has he called you a know-it-all yet?” Draco asked.

“_Yet_?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll get around to it eventually. Let me know and I’ll jinx him for you.”

Hermione huffed, but didn’t respond that. Instead she cut to what she wanted to know. “Tell me all about Transfiguration.”

Draco pulled a plate of rolls to himself. “The professor is an animagus. She seems fairly stern.”

“An animagus, really? How do you know?”

He smirked. “She was a cat when we all came in.”

Her eyes grew round as saucers. “You saw her transform? What was it like?”

“Er, fast? She leapt off her desk a cat and landed a woman.” Draco shrugged.

“It would be too much to ask you to pay attention to something so interest,” she said with a sigh. “What do you have next?”

Draco consulted his timetable as though he hadn’t memorized it already. “Potions. And you?”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts. Watch out in Potions; Professor Snape seems brilliant, but I think he might play favorites. And he’s rather, erm, prickly.” She tapped her cheek, considering. “I wonder how the professor for Defense will be.”

“That’s Riddle, isn’t it?” he said.

“_Professor _Riddle, Draco,” she corrected, the boy rolling his eyes in response. “And yes. I feel like I’ve heard that name before.”

“I’ve heard he’s brilliant.”

A tremor of eagerness fluttered through her. Hermione had read and heard that Hogwarts was the best magical institution in the world. Everyone seemed to think so, except for Lord Lucius. He’d wanted to send Draco to Durmstrang, which didn’t take muggleborns. Narcissa had asked what he planned to do with his son’s companion and Lucius had retorted that she could stay home or perhaps go with Draco as a servant. Narcissa had put her foot down, so that was that.

Lady Cissa rarely insisted upon anything her husband might disagree with and Lucius knew to pick his battles when she did.

“I suppose we should get going then,” Hermione said at last. “It’s a bit of a trek into the dungeons.” As before, the pair walked toward the stairs together before parting ways. “I’ll meet you outside Professor Dumbledore’s office?”

“Of course.”

Hermione turned after watching her companion head down the stairs, climbing her way toward DADA.

This room was the antithesis of the dungeon with its airy windows and clean, neat walls. Hermione was, of course, the first student in the room. However, someone else was present when she entered.

She took one look at him and her face flushed crimson. There was no way this was Professor Riddle. She’d pictured someone older, someone with grey hair peppered in at the very least, with a beard like many wizards were wont to have after a certain age. If she were being honest, she’d imagined someone much more like Professor Dumbledore.

Professor Riddle wasn’t young exactly, but neither was he old. Thinking on it, she couldn’t decide what his age might be. Thirty? Forty? As a wizard, he could even be sixty and she would be none the wiser. He was tall, around the same height as Lord Lucius, who quite enjoyed being able to frown down at everyone he encountered; he was slimmer than her lord, though his shoulders still had breadth that spoke of strength and balanced out his height. However impressive his stature, it was his face that had caused her reaction.

His eyes were so dark the color was indiscernible from her distance, lined with thick lashes and accented with perfectly arched black brows. His hair was the same shade, neatly styled curls that felt onto his forehead in way she was sure had to be purposeful. A patrician nose and well-defined lips completed the features. He was almost too beautiful with his square jaw and the sharp angle of his cheekbones somehow reminiscent of a statue.

He stood there facing her in his white button-down, black slacks and open robe and Hermione suddenly realized he’d spoken to her.

Her cheeks colored again; she had never actually _gaped_ at someone’s appearance before. It was embarrassing. What had he said? Ah yes.

“You’re a bit early, aren’t you? You must be an eager pupil then, Miss…?”

“Granger,” she murmured. “Please excuse my, er, delayed response. Hermione Granger.”

He smiled and the expression was every bit as breath-taking as one would imagine. “It’s quite alright, Miss Granger. I have that effect on some.” Rather than seeming arrogant, the statement was disarming, almost bashful as he shared the knowledge of his own beauty. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I’m Tom Riddle, professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise I’m in the wrong room!” Hermione flushed again. “I’m sorry, you must think me terribly rude. I didn’t mean to—”

Tom Riddle chuckled and silenced her with a raised palm. “Not at all. It’s charming to hear a student young as yourself show such wit. Most first years are terrified their first few weeks.” He leaned against his desk and studied her as she went through the same ritual as she had in Potions; textbook and parchment side-by-side on the desk (former left justified and latter right), inkwell at right top corner, quill. She dated the top of the parchment and added the subject for good measure. “Granger. Any relation to the legendary potioneer, Hector Dagworth-Granger?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head, glad that she had taken the extra time to tame her curls this morning. “Not that I know of. Probably not. I’m, er, muggleborn.” She blushed once more, gaze down on her neat print.

“I see.” His tone did not belie his opinions on the matter of blood, so she changed a glance up to see him studying her. “You’re not an Institution muggleborn though, are you?”

“How can you tell?”

Once more he laughed, and she wondered how he did it without seeming to poke fun at her. “Your belongings are much too fine to come from a government run facility. Dragonhide satchel, quality parchment, not to mention the potion you use for your hair. You’ve been taken in.” Those dark eyes were weighing her carefully and she felt unbalanced under them. “Not adopted. Fostered?”

“I’m Draco Malfoy’s companion,” Hermione said.

Riddle’s brows rose at that. “Lucius Malfoy is raising a muggleborn?”

Was she mistaken or had there been the slightest hesitation before that last word? Hermione pushed back the thought. “It’s for Draco. Lord Lucius doesn’t particularly care for those of my blood status, I know, but he and Lady Narcissa decided that it would be best to bring in someone like me for, for Draco’s sake.”

“Yes, I think I have heard of a few Pureblood families partaking in the practice.”

Hermione didn’t like discussing the nature of her being with the Malfoy family, so she was relieved when other students suddenly flooded into the classroom and Professor Riddle’s attention was diverted from her. She wrung her hands beneath the desk, wishing once more Draco were there; when they were together, she didn’t feel as much like she didn’t belong.

“Ah, Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger. Please come in.” Albus Dumbledore gestured for the children to sit at two plush chairs in front of his desk, a kindly smile on his face. “Lemon drop?” he offered, extending the candy bowl.

Feeling it would be rude to decline (especially as Draco eagerly partook), Hermione took one of the little yellow candies. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now, I hope your first day at Hogwarts has gone well?”

“Tremendously!” Hermione said before she could stop herself. “That is…” Draco grinned at her embarrassment. “Yes, thank you.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy added.

“Good, good.” His brilliant blue eyes looked between them. “Do you know why I’ve asked to see the two of you?”

They chorused, “No sir.”

The old man hummed to himself contemplatively. “The two of you have a unique relationship,” he began. “I am aware that your family, Mister Malfoy, took in Miss Granger some years ago.” At their nods, the professor continued. “I’ve been informed that when you commit a transgression, Mr. Malfoy, you, Miss Granger, are the one who receives penance?”

Draco immediately took her hand in his.

“Yes,” she said quietly, squeezing back the boy’s hand in gratitude for the comfort.

Something seemed to soften on the man’s face as he took in the action. “That is not the way of things at Hogwarts. Here, the one who does the act receives punishment. Usually it is in the form of detention or restriction of a sort. We have not engaged in corporal punishment for some time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hermione as Draco said, “Perfect, sir.”

“And that will not be a problem for you? Either of you?”

Hermione looked to Draco, who emphatically shook his head. “Not at all,” said the boy.

“Good. I know that out in the world there are many who believe blood status is part of the measure of a witch or wizard. You will find that Hogwarts prefers to give its students all equal consideration.” At their nods of understanding, he smiled. “I’m glad we could have this moment to chat. Please come to me if there is anything you should need, both of you.”

They thanked the professor and bade him good evening.

As they walked down the corridor, the locked gazes and smiled.

“Equals?” Hermione questioned.

“Equals,” agreed Draco, squeezing his hand around hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco will not always be as outwardly affectionate as he is now. That's mostly been Hermione's impact on him; as he gets older, he'll become less outwardly demonstrative (more in line with what we see in the later books and movies). 
> 
> Also, Hermione has always been a sucker for good looks and brilliance. Let's face it, she would stare at Tom. Yes, his age is hard to tack down for her. He's done all sorts of things to make himself immortal, but does not have as many Horcruxes as canon.
> 
> The next chapter will gloss over things and time-jump a bit. This will probably be the way of things until we get into the meat of the plot.


	6. Some Friendships are Fated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship is a funny thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter; I'm slowly getting us where we need to be. Be patient.

Hogwarts was everything a magical castle should be. It was bright and strange and mysterious all at once and more. There were ghosts and moving staircases throughout the entirety of it, that terrible poltergeist, Peeves, the ever-enchanting ceiling in the Great Hall that reflected the sky outside. She’d heard rumors of secret passages and strange rooms that appeared out of nowhere. It was warm and wonderful, and it was quickly becoming home.

As long as she kept her time in the Gryffindor common room short, that was. Her fellow Gryffindors were not enthused with her company. She’d heard her dormitory mates making fun of how her hair looked in the morning, and boys complaining she was a know-it-all (just as Draco had predicted); moreover, many called her a traitor for her friendship with Draco who, while a Hufflepuff himself, was from a notoriously Slytherin family. It was an annoyance, but at least she had Draco.

And the professors had taken a shine to her for the most part. Professor Snape was not overly fond of anyone, though he slightly favored Slytherins and slightly disdained Gryffindors more than any other house. Professor McGonagall was fair but had high standards when it came to excellence. The tiny Charms professors, Professor Flitwick, was friendly with just about everyone and adored Hermione’s enthusiasm. Professor Sprout was much the same as Professor Flitwick, though perhaps slightly less strict. Professor Binns was… well, he was a ghost, as much history as the subject he taught.

Professor Riddle was something in and of himself. His notes on her essays pushed her in a way mere corrections did not (telling her to cut anything not pertinent and be more concise); it was frustrating, especially since he didn’t guide her in how to do that. Her made her figure it out on her own. Draco found it amusing. He’d said as much when she complained that Professor Riddle would only call on her once per class period.

“You are the biggest swot, Hermione. He’s trying to give others a chance too.” He shook his head. “I think he’s good for you.”

“How does he mark your essays?” She glanced over at his satchel, which he then held closer lest she grab for it. “He’s always writing ‘you don’t need to define every term’ and ‘use fewer words’.”

Draco tried to hide a laugh and Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “You do go on,” he said with a shrug.

“But all of my information is correct,” she insisted.

Draco sipped his breakfast tea and lifted one of his pale brows. The Expression was every bit his mother whenever one of them said something she wanted to contradict. “As you say,” he responded at last, when he was sure she had gotten the message. “We should get to class.”

She sighed a long-suffering sigh but stood and shouldered her bag, following him out. It was foolish as his class was on the opposite side of the castle, but Draco escorted her to Charms. “Do you want to meet at the common room to walk to the feast together?”

Hermione nodded. “That would be great. I’ll see you after classes?”

“Yes,” he agreed. After watching her successfully enter the room, he continued on to Transfiguration.

\--

Hermione was late. While they hadn’t agreed on a set time, he and Hermione spent every free moment together, usually in his common room or at the library. While other students weren’t traditionally allowed into the common rooms of other houses, Hufflepuff was the loosest with the rule. As long as you were there with a Hufflepuff and you abided by their standards you were welcome. Most students didn’t take advantage, but Draco had made sure to check with the prefects before bringing Hermione in the first time.

“Alright there, Draco?” Ernie, a fellow first year, asked. He was a bit pompous, but he never balked at Draco as a snake-turned-badger. The same could not be said for everyone.

“Hermione and I were going to walk to the feast together. She was excited for our first Hogwarts Halloween.”

“Perhaps she thought you meant to meet outside?” the other boy responded.

“Perhaps.” Draco ran a hand through his hair nervously. “I’ll go check. Thanks, Ernie.” He brushed past the other boy, determined to find his friend and companion. As he suspected, she was not in the corridor. He thought through her schedule. She’d had Charms this morning, DADA, then Transfiguration. He darted up the stairs toward the classrooms, hoping he could catch students outside of them. Most of them were out and the students were slowly trickling toward the Great Hall. He frowned and thought through possibilities.

The DADA professor’s office was on the same floor as the Transfiguration classroom, so he decided to try there first. He was winded by the time he reached the door, cheeks red and bright on his pale face. Draco rapped sharply at the door, which opened after the slightest pause. Professor Riddle sat at a desk, sorting through parchments.

“Mr. Malfoy, are you unwell?” the man asked with a frown.

“Looking for Hermione,” Draco puffed out. “Have you seen her, professor?”

The frown deepened. “No. She missed class this afternoon. I was planning to discuss it with her Monday.”

Draco took off before the sentence had ended, heading back toward the Great Hall. One of the first year Gryffindors had to be going that way by now. He skidded to a halt as a swarm of red drifted by. “Weasley!” Three redheaded boys looked back at him. “The young one,” he clarified irritably.

“What?” said the lanky boy, his dark-haired friend Potter having stopped to speak to him as well.

“Hermione— we were supposed to meet before the feast, Professor Riddle said she wasn’t in class—”

“Can’t walk to the Great Hall without having her hold your hand, Malfoy?” Weasley sneered.

Draco nearly growled at him. “She’s missing, you daft ginger.”

“So?” the other boy said. “How is that my problem?”

He was getting impatient, tempted to grab the weasel by the robes and shake him until he told Draco what had happened. “I had hoped one of your lot might have noticed the only one with any brains was missing. Too much to hope for—”

“Oi!” Weasley took a step closer to him but Potter extended an arm in front of him.

Potter looked thoughtful. “Actually…” He looked over at Ron, then back to Draco. “He didn’t mean anything by it, you understand,” he said. “Ron’s mouth just gets away from him sometimes.”

“What did he say?”

“Don’t blame me for this—”

“Ron,” Harry said evenly. “Hermione is smart, a bit of a know-it-all, yeah, but she’s not all that bad, is she?”

Draco’s gaze flitted between the pair. Honestly, Weasley was one of the most hopeless of their year and he couldn’t understand why Potter (whom he grudgingly admit wasn’t a complete waste) put up with him. “I’m not going to wait all day, Potter.”

“You see, Hermione corrected Ron during Charms and he said something a bit— a bit mean about her after class and she must have heard it, because she ran off.” Potter looked distinctly uncomfortable and rubbed behind his neck. “She hasn’t been in any classes since.”

“What did he say?” Draco repeated in a low voice.

Potter side eyed Weasley. The latter sighed. “I might have made fun of how she corrected me and called her a nightmare.” At the quicksilver glare, he said, “I was just blowing off steam, Malfoy, I didn’t expect her to hear it. It’s something you say to your mates, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Draco said bitingly. “Since Hermione _is_ my friend, and she is not half so much of an arsehole as you are.”

“Whoa—”

Draco continued over the protesting boys. “Do you have any idea how much she endures every day? She’s a muggleborn living with a Pureblood family, going to Pureblood events where most of the people there call her a – a – you know what! And she gets here and hopes that maybe, just maybe she will be treated with a modicum of dignity and you have to go and be a prick!”

He ended quite a bit louder than he’d started and it was probably a good thing most of the students were already in the Great Hall. The two boys were gaping at him; had Draco’s mother heard him, he was certain she would _scorgify_ his mouth within an inch of his life. He wasn’t sorry for it; his father still used ‘mudblood’ without a thought and Draco had decided that word was worse than any other he could say.

Potter recovered first. “We’ll help you find her.”

Weasley nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry, mate. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Draco stared at them, trying to calm his heavily drumming heart and the roar of anger through him. “Good,” he said at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter skims over some time.


	7. Let's do the Timewarp!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Along came Fourth Year and the Triwizard Tournament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time has passed so that the plot can progress.
> 
> Just a note: Divination and Muggle Studies are not taught at Hogwarts currently. Trelawney never gave her prophecy and so she was never hired; Dumbledore was able to convince Slughorn it wasn't necessary. Muggle Studies isn't taught in deference to the current climate.

By the end of their first year, Hermione had formed a friendship with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The two often joined her and Draco in the library; Draco refused to let them into the Hufflepuff common room, so the library became their usual spot. Ron especially appreciated Hermione’s work ethic, or at least how she would look over everything and help him along. Draco was a bit more reticent, but he had reluctantly accepted the two of them in his and Hermione’s little circle.

His father was not happy with his placement in Hufflepuff and continuously changed the subject whenever it came about.. His mother was far more understanding.

Hermione wrote both of her friends regularly over the summer, even sending a gift for Harry on his birthday. By the end of their second year, Draco had gotten comfortable enough with the two that he even found himself spiritedly debating Harry rather than arguing outright.

Third year added in all of those classes Hermione had been so eager to attend. Hermione wanted to take them all, but Draco was not as eager. “Arithmancy _and_ Ancient Runes?”

“It’s only three additional classes, Draco,” she said evenly. “Besides, you’re intelligent enough. Push yourself a bit. Or do you want me to academically outshine you again?” He grumbled. “You can always drop some classes after your OWLs so you can focus on your future career with your NEWTs.”

“Future career?” Draco laughed. “I’m going to help father manage our estates, work with the Ministry, and all the other business he attends to during the day.”

“Not all of us are so blessed,” Hermione reminded him.

Draco wrapped an arm around her and held her close. “You know I’ll take care of you, Hermione. You’re brilliant; with father’s recommendation and your flawless record from Hogwarts, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were one day head of a department at the Ministry.”

“Really?”

It was rare for muggleborns to do well in politically-related jobs, but Draco knew Hermione was an exceptional witch; she would manage.

“Yes.”

\--

Fourth year began with a surprise for the students of Hogwarts as Horace Slughorn announced the return of a long-forgotten tradition: the Triwizard Tournament. It was all anyone could talk about for months, especially Ron.

“I’m just saying it would be nice to try,” he complained. “Is fourteen really so young?”

“Yes,” said Hermione at the same time as Draco. Harry smiled at is friend sympathetically but shrugged. He’d barely accepted the limitation himself. It was all rather irritating to Hermione; almost every other Gryffindor under the age of seventeen was of the opinion that they could be the Hogwarts Champion if given the chance. Hermione was fairly certain the Weasley twins were conspiring ways they might be able to enter.

“I’m more excited about the international students,” Hermione said. “It’ll be fascinating to talk to students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Lord Lucius wanted Draco to go to Durmstrang, but Lady Narcissa was dead set against it.”

“Thank Merlin mother put her foot down.” Draco shuddered. “I can’t imagine enjoying any place Hermione would be treated as less than a house elf.”

Ron curled his lip at that. “That’s revolting. My dad thinks it’s wrong, the way muggleborns are torn from their families now. He says muggles are dead smart and could handle learning about magic just fine. The way Pureblood families use muggleborns is just wrong.” He eyed Draco, who shrugged uncomfortably.

“I have no say,” the blond muttered.

Hermione arched a brow at Ron until the boy squirmed and dropped the subject.

This was about the best the boys interacted together, and it was all for her sake. Draco and Ron in particular disliked one another; apparently the feud stemmed back at least to their fathers, if not further. Ron’s father worked in the Ministry in what Lord Lucius considered a lowly position. Moreover, the family had little money and a great number of children. They were everything the Malfoys were not. Hermione and Harry often had to play interference between the blond and the redhead, though Draco didn’t care much for Harry either. She was grateful that her friends all played nice for her sake, but it was tiring at times.

“Mione, could you help me with my Potions essay?” Ron asked after a moment of unusual quiet between the students.

She could see Draco straining to keep in the correction of her name, so she smiled at him before turning to Ron. “Certainly. Where’s your draft?”

Ron blushed beneath his plentiful freckles. “Er…”

“You _have_ started it?” At his sheepish grin, she sighed. “It’s due tomorrow, Ronald. You can’t possibly write a seven-foot essay on Blood Replenishing potions in a night. You’ll need to pull in at least four references,” she chided.

“C’mon, Mione. I know you have it all figured out already.”

At the widening of his bright blue eyes, she sighed and pulled out her own essay. “Alright. But you are not copying mine. We’ll just… use it as a reference.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” His smile was relaxed and relieved as he pulled out his own parchment and started working on his header.

\--

The students were told to sit at their house tables for dinner that evening; Hermione was slightly put out, but she sat between Ron and Harry gladly enough. When the Durmstrang students entered, it took only a moment for students to start whispering amongst themselves.

“Harry, Harry, it’s Krum!” Ron reached over her to shake their friend, who was wide-eyed as he watched the fur-clad students marching in. “That’s Viktor Krum!”

“Merlin’s balls,” whispered Harry.

Hermione frowned. She’d heard the name, but couldn’t match the name and the large, brooding young man to whom it belonged to anything else in her mind. “Who?”

Ron gaped at her. “The Bulgarian seeker, Viktor Krum? The one who caught the snitch at the Quidditch World Cup? Blimey, Mione, you were there!”

Her cheeks reddened. “Oh. Right.” She liked Quidditch well enough; both Harry and Draco were on their respective teams (Harry as seeker and Draco as a chaser), so she attended about half the Hogwarts games. However, she didn’t make it a point to _follow_ the professional league (though she knew Ron was fanatic about the Chudley Cannons, Harry’s favorite team was Puddlemere United, and the Malfoys all supported the French Quiberon Quafflepunchers). She had gone to the World Cup and sat beside Draco, but there had been much more to do than just watch the game. And certainly the seekers were so fast she hardly got a look at them even from her vantage point in the Minister’s box.

Krum gazed around the Great Hall and she smiled brightly when his eyes passed over her. She hadn’t realized students could play professionally and she wondered whether it was contingent on having decent grades, like playing for a school team often was.

When the headmaster introduced the usage of the Goblet of Fire and the age line around it drawn by Albus Dumbledore himself, Ron stage whispered, “I’ll bet you ten Galleons Krum is the Durmstrang Champion. He’s massive, he is.”

“Not gonna take that bet, mate,” Harry responded, eyes glued to the cup where it glowed from its pedestal. Hermione could see the desire in his eyes. While mostly a modest young man, he had a streak of adventure and a longing to prove himself that Hermione sometimes glimpsed. It called to something not dissimilar to a secret she herself bore.

Her eyes roved the Hall, returning the smile Draco threw her way, gazing at the reflected awe in all of the students’ faces, and then lighted on the foreign visitors again This was going to be a year to remember.

\--

It was no surprise when Viktor Krum indeed proved to be the Durmstrang Champion. A lovely, veela-esque girl named Fleur Delacour was the Beauxbaton Champion, and the Hogwarts Champion was Cedric Diggory.

There was no end to Draco’s bragging about that. “That’s right, Potter, a Hufflepuff beat out all your Gryffindor seventh years.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I think he heard you the last three times, Draco.” She stood from her seat between the two. “I’m going to try and find a reference for that Arithmancy paper Dumbledore assigned us.” Before any of the boys could say a word, she had left their preferred library table (toward the back-corner opposite of where Madam Pince’s desk was) and began to wander the shelves.

She heard the incessant giggling when she paused at the Potion’s section, having remembered she wanted to cross-reference something Professor Snape had said in class. This was becoming a regular occurrence. Usually the library was Hermione’s sanctuary _away_ from romance-addled girls, but it appeared Viktor Krum was indeed a studious young man, as he spent more time in the library than he probably did his own bed on the Durmstrang ship.

The giggling became louder as he stopped beside her, pulling out a book titled _Potions of the Amazon and a Comparison to British Counterparts_. One of the corners of his usually stern mouth tugged upward when he caught her looking, and she turned red.

“Hello,” he said in a low voice.

She reluctantly returned the expression, eyes darting between his and the girls hovering in the distance. “Hi. That one’s pretty good.” Hermione nodded to the book at his furrowed brows.

“Oh, thank you.”

She nodded again and turned away, confusion and warmth swirling through her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be out of my usual area for a few weeks, but I have half of chapter eight already written. I'll try to keep up, but make no promises. At the very least I should be able to start posting within a few days of getting back.


	8. Here There be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Triwizard Tournament begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait... I went on vacation and then got sick. When I recovered, I found the motherboard of my laptop had fried somehow. Most of what I had for Chapter 8 was gone. I could have lost more, but had saved a bit to my Google Docs and external hard drive (I'm about 70k into an original piece right now, so losing that would have been heartbreaking).
> 
> I will try to resume weekly updates.

Hermione gasped as the handsome young man barely avoided the whistling ball from the nostrils of the brilliant red and gold creature thrashing about. She’d grabbed Harry’s arm without noticing and the boy merely grinned when she finally realized and apologized. It was a relief when Viktor Krum finally swept the golden egg into his arms from where it had lain amidst the broken shells of the others. She thought they might be real, and the loss of the little creatures that had possibly been inside was a painful thought, though lasted only until the judges called out the scores for the three champions.

Krum and Delacour were officially tied at forty points apiece-- Krum having lost points from the destruction of the eggs and the Beauxbtons’ student from the slight singe she’d received from her own dragon. Cedric was only two points below the pair, though it galled the Hogwarts students that that technically meant he was last place.

For days all anyone could talk about was the first task and the harrowing ordeal the Champions had overcome in defeating the dragons, as well as speculating on what the next task might be. As was her wont, Hermione spent her time in the library and with her boys. While the three often accompanied her, she managed to find herself alone amongst the books now and then.

And when she was, she’d notice an uptick of tittering girls wandering the shelves as they followed behind the hulking figure of Viktor Krum.

He seemed to be everywhere Hermione looked these days-- in the library when she was looking for references or reading material, walking around the lake when she sat in the grass of the cooling autumn as the boys flew during their free time. She thought she caught his gaze on her a few times, her face flushing hotly whenever their eyes met, but surely it was coincidence.   
  
That was what she had to tell herself, knowing that she, while pretty (Lady Narcissa had told her as much and emphasized the importance of appearance in society, teaching Hermionehow to deal with her unruly brown curls, shrinking her over large front teeth, imparting the most important of self-care regimens and cosmetic spells upon the girl), she as no great beauty. Who would look twice at the wide-eyed bookworm when there was a stunning young woman like Fleur Delacour around?

She saw the way Draco, Ron, and Harry had all looked at the pale, slender blonde. Hermione couldn’t blame them. Like the woman with whom she lived, Fleur enchanted everyone around her. She even shared the coloring of the Malfoys, her refined French features even more delicate and lovely.

Hermione was proven wrong in her doubts when, the day after the Yule Ball was announced, someone tapped her shoulder as she perused the books in the Arithmancy section.

She turned, brows furrowing as she prepared to tell whichever of the three-- blond, brunet, ginger-- had interrupted her and stopped short as she peered up into the dark eyes of the Durmstrang student.

At her no-doubt shocked expression, he said, “I am sorry if I haff startled you.”

Hermione closed her mouth sharply and shook her head, trying to regain herself. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

He smiled shyly, wringing his large, calloused hands. “I haff noticed you here in the library. You are quite studious.” At her nod, he continued. “I am Viktor, Viktor Krum. From Durmstrang,” he added hurriedly.

A curious smile had started pulling at Hermione’s mouth as well, her fingers playing nervously against the edges of the book she held to her chest. “I know,” she replied without thinking, cheeks instantly flaring. Hermione introduced herself hurriedly to cover the faux pas. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

They stared at each other for a moment, neither quite still, nor comfortable with breaking the tension. Viktor ran a hand over his closely cropped hair and cleared his throat. “I vas vondering if you might, ah, accompany me to the Yule Ball? If you are not vith one of the boys-- that is, I imagine a girl like you might haff someone-- if you haff no date yet.”

“No!” She said quickly, then stumbled out, “I don’t have a date, that is. And I would love to. Go with you.”

A grin slowly unfurled across his face, lighting up his dark eyes, and Hermione’s stomach fluttered warmly. “Oh. Good. Great. I vill meet you outside the Great Hall before the ball, yes? Ve vill haff to dance to open the ball.”

She beamed up at him, having slowly moved close enough she could almost feel the warmth radiating from the large young man. “Yes. I look forward to it.”

He murmured another, “Good,” awkwardly and finally wandered away, leaving the fourth year student giddy and dizzy in his wake.

  
\--  
Professor Riddle had asked her to stay after and speak with him, which was never a hardship. Besides being her favorite professor and Hermione being the consummate teacher’s pet, there was also the matter of his appearance.

“What did you want to see me for, professor?” She asked, suppressing the urge to fidget as she stood in front of his desk. She had finally admit to herself last year that she had a slight crush on Professor Riddle. He was brilliant, charismatic, and beautiful beyond what any human being had the right to be. He was artwork, like da Vinci’s David made flesh. Draco had teased her about it and she suspected Harry knew; Ron was oblivious.

He smiled a slightly crooked smile at her that made him seem younger somehow, almost like a student himself. Hermione had no idea how old he actually was, but he couldn’t be too old. Twenties, maybe thirty? “Yes, thank you for staying behind.” He gestured for her to follow him and they stepped out, walking to his office as he started to speak. “I wanted to discuss this before the holidays, since I’ve no doubt you we will want ample time to research. I’m working on a proposal for the concept currently, but I’ve no doubt Horace-- the headmaster-- will approve it, especially with you as my student assistant.” Hermione frowned, but stayed quiet. Upon entering his office he bade her have a seat across from him at his little seating area. “I’m starting an advanced DADA club at the school, open only to fifth years and above. I would like you to be my student assistant. As such, you would help draw up the proposal, the charter for the club, and the range of its purview.”

“Oh!” Hermione clapped her hands together excitedly, eyes shining. “I’d be honored, Professor.”

The smile returned to his face, a touch brighter now. “I’d hoped as much. You’ll want to look into the organization of other clubs and the history of various organizations in the school, of course. We will be submitting the proposal late next semester and I expect to hit the ground running next year.”

She nodded, mind already drawing up a list of items to look into and books she could reference in the library. “Thank you so much, professor. I’ll get on researching immediately.”

Professor Riddle chuckled. “Don’t worry yourself too much over it; we have plenty of time, after all.”

“Worry?” Hermione blinked, pulling herself out of her whirring thoughts. “Not at all! This is just the project I need for the year. I’ve been wanting to get more involved somehow.”

“You are the most organized student I know, Hermione. I knew you were perfect for this task.”

She beamed, something warm expanding in her chest as he called her by her first name. He only did that with his very favorite students, and not often. “You won’t regret it, Professor.”

His charcoal eyes weighed her. “I know I won’t.” He shuffled some papers, then glanced up at her as if in afterthought. “Will you be going to the Yule Ball? I am to chaperone.”

“Yes,” she said. Hermione had thought their meeting was at an end and had started for the door already, but turned back to Professor Riddle.

“You’re being escorted by Draco, I assume?” His eyes were scanning the essay currently at the top of his stack. At Hermione’s light laugh, he looked back up at her.

“No,” she replied. “I don’t think Draco has even thought of asking anyone yet, let alone me.”

“Do you not have a date yet?”

She shifted from one foot to another, flushing red. “I’m going with Viktor Krum.”

Professor Riddle’s head snapped up at that, lips pursing, the slightest crease forming between his brows. She fidgeted under his scrutiny, suddenly wondering if he thought it disloyal, going to the ball with the Durmstrang Champion. The entire tournament was supposed to be about international camaraderie, wasn’t it? Surely she wasn’t doing something wrong. After a long pause, Professor Riddle nodded. “I am sure he will be a perfect gentleman,” he said at last. “Go on, Miss Granger. I must get to these essays.”

Hermione parted his office, puzzling over the interaction as she made her way to study with the boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short. I'm trying to get back into writing with the laptop loss, currently using my iPad (which is old and mostly used for DND). 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed both Viktor's adorable awkwardness and Tom's not-so-pleased reaction.


	9. Old Enough to Dance the Night Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of the Yule Ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Yule Ball will be two chapters, most likely. And this is the point at which we start adding in more Lucius. 
> 
> This was written on my iPad because I still don't have a computer. It feels subpar because of that, but I want to write, dammit.
> 
> Also, it was written at work.

Ronald Weasley was an arse, Hermione had concluded. For the last week, he’d pestered her non-stop about who her date to the ball was. He’d even insinuated that she was lying to save face, and that she would probably not appear rather than have them know the shameful truth.

“I’ll take you, Mione,” he’d graciously offered. “It’s no bother, really.”

Her jaw had stiffened, hand tightening on her quill dangerously. “It’s not my fault you’ve waited till the last minute to ask, Ronald. I told you, I’m already going with someone. And, no. I will not tell you who.”

“Give it up, Weasel,” said Draco. “She won’t tell me, so she sure as shit won’t tell you.”

At that, her narrowed gaze had flicked to her best friend. “Language, Draco. What would your mother say?” Since becoming friends with Harry and Ron (though Draco’s relationship, especially the latter, could only loosely be called that at times), his vocabulary had expanded in the worst of ways. Ron was the more foul-mouthed of the two, but Harry had apparently learned some choice verbiage from his father’s group of friends, the Marauders.

Draco colored slightly, but favored her with a smile. He’d badgered Hermione long before Ronald had made his half-arsed offer to escort her the first time, having made an off hand comment about the two of them needing to coordinate a time to meet before the ball. He’d taken it for granted that Hermione would be his date, as she was his best friend and constant companion. While he’d been happy to hear someone had asked her and had immediately sought out Susan Bones for her company that evening, he’d burned to know who would have Hermione on his arm. He did not let the curiosity show in front of Ron and Harry, though.

“Honestly, Ronald, go ask someone else. I heard Padma hasn’t a date yet,” she drawled.

Harry tipped his head and blinked at her, a slow grin spreading across her mouth. “And she has a twin in Ravenclaw. Hold up, mate,” he said to Ron. The twins were studying at a nearby table, and the scrawny boy crawled out of his seat and over to them. Hermione watched as he first spoke to Padma, then Parvati. The Ravenclaw peered around him at Ron, then nodded with a casual shrug. That settled, Harry returned. “You’re going with Parv and I’m with Padma.”

A smug smile graced Hermione’s face. She’d overheard Padma and Lavender discussing the ball this morning, and a lucky thing. The Patl twins were beautiful and, while Padma was a bit vain, not at all horrible or annoying. Her boys should have a good enough time if they behaved themselves.

When she adjourned for the evening, Hermione mentally went over everything she would have to do the next day to prepare. She was nervous, knowing everyone would be staring at her as she was the little bookworm who was somehow being escorted by Quidditch star and Durmstrang Champion Viktor Krum.

There was one person in whom Hermione had confided. The same day she’d sent the owl, Narcissa had responded. The lovely pink, fluttery gown they’d bought Hermione at the start of the year would not do, she insisted. That was a dress for a girl who was attending a ball as an ordinary guest. Now, she would need something more, something worthy of a lady on the arm of an important man. And if there was one thing Narcissa knew, it was how to command with her appearance.

Thus, Hermione had received a gown that would hug the newly-developed curves that had appeared in recent months (a close fitting in Hogsmeade during a weekend had been necessitated to ensure the clothing would fit perfectly), hair products and instructions on charms to use dictated in a long letter, new shoes, everything a fifteen-year-old girl could desire and more.

She should have felt ready; instead, she could hardly sleep with the thundering, nervous tattoo of her heart in her throat.  
\---  
Lucius Malfoy detested attending events at the school (excepting the occasional Quidditch game he’d watched in Draco’s second and third years; he saw his son so rarely that seeing the boy play had been a rare delight). He had told Narcissa not to bother tonight, as he would make an appearance and then be on his way. The woman had insisted he at least check in on Draco and-- much to his chagrin-- their ward.

It was easy to forget the girl during the school year. As he sat with the faculty during games, he did not see her in the sea of student faces. Only during the holiday breaks and summer holidays did she stay in his home. He’d come to breakfast the morning after Draco had returned from his first year at Hogwarts and nearly started when he saw the little Mudblood. The previous years all fell neatly back into his mind.

Lucius didn’t spend much time at home, however. He had a business to run, as well as his duties as seat on the Wizengamot, and as a board member at Hogwarts. He’d made it a point to set aside a little time for his son and heir, but distanced himself otherwise. The girl was Narcissa’s responsibility, except when discipline was necessary. His wife was the one who ensured the girl was fed and clothed and taught her manners. While Lucius knew she attended events with his son, he rarely saw her himself as the pair got older and spent more time doing whatever adolescents these days did.

He confessed (if only to himself) that he did not recognize her when the doors of the Great Hall swept open and the Champions led their dates inside. He stood beside Horace, dressed in grey dress robes that suited his coloring, touched with silver and green brocade. The pompous Headmaster wore some garish black and purple thing that was as outdated as the man himself. No matter.

There was the Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory. He was a handsome lad, athletically lean, a shining example of what a Hufflepuff should be, apparently. If they were all like him, the House wouldn’t be such an embarrassment. Seeker and Captain of his Quidditch team (which was not quite a joke under his management, as Lucius had to admit), Prefect, and now Champion. According to Draco, Diggory was grooming him to be replacement as Captain and Prefect once the seventh-year graduated. If his son had to be a Hufflepuff (and how positively irritating was that to Lucius; the first summer his son was home, he’d found every excuse to punish the boy and the damnable reason why he could), at least he could be the best among the Badgers.

Diggory’s date was the Chang girl; Lucius knew her mother from the Ministry, a dainty little Halfblood, as the girl’s father. They made a pretty pair.

And next came the Beauxbaton’s Champion. She was a lovely thing, partly thanks to her unfortunate heritage, though at least she had no juggles in her ancestry. Her date was another Quidditch player, to his amusement. A Pureblood peacock he was sure was as useless as his father.

Lucius smiled to himself as he spotted, easy to see even the crowd, the Durmstrang Champion. There was a strong young man. Viktor Krum looked commanding in his militaristic uniform and closely cropped hair. The man wished his son had gone to Durmstrang and been under the young Champion’s tutelage. He had heard nothing but good about Krum, talented, intelligent, Pureblood, world-class Seeker. And on his arm…

  
At first, he did not recognize her, and only appreciated her for her appearance. She was a small young woman, especially beside the massive figure that was her date, icy blue gown hugging her curves without being immodest. It was the sort of gown Narcissa would wear, the sharp vee of the neckline displaying delicate collarbones and the daring hint of décolletage. Had there not been the sheer flare of over skirts over the hip-hugging skirt, the gown would have flirted with impropriety (for a student during a school ball).

Having trailed his gaze over the beautiful, expensive, frost-embroidered gown and the figure it hinted at, Lucius returned to the face he had not immediately known. The girl’s thick brunette curls were tamed and falling down her back elegantly, her brown eyes bright and framed with thick, darkened lashes. He frowned as she laughed, nose wrinkling. He knew that laugh. It was his ward, the mudblood, Hermione Granger.

Lucius thought back to the last time he’d seen her, rather uncomfortable with his previous praise of her figure. She had not looked like this, he was sure. Granted, he’d spent less time home this summer than before, as he’d had meetings at the little organization Bella was creating (though Rodolphous was the supposed head of it; his brother-in-law did little without his wife’s consent, contrary to the way Lucius lived his life), but he was sure the girl had been as mousy and inconsequential as ever. What, then, merited her looking like this and on the arm of a noble scion to Pureblood family?

Suddenly infuriated, and sure his wife had known and not told him of this little dalliance, Lucius slid closer to the headmaster of Durmstrang. He’d met Igor Karkarov in the past and knew the man shared certain beliefs.

“Igor,” he intoned as evenly as he could manage, “I was under the impression that your school did not take kindly to those of… Muddied birth.”

The dark man frowned. “I do not take your meaning,” he said, words gruff with his thick accent. “You know we do not.”

Lucius gestured with one pale hand toward the young couple now swirling across the dance floor. Miss Granger’s over skirt flared out behind her and around her as Krum led her over the shining surface. He watched as understanding dawned on the headmaster’s face.

“How can you be sure?”

“The girl is my-- ward, companion to my Draco for matters of discipline. Did we not discuss the matter when I inquired about sending him to your institution?” Lucius’ words were as cold as his manner. At least his son had had the forethought to stay within his own class for this event. Whilst Amelia Bones was a thorn in his heel at times, she was a formidable and well-bred woman.

Igor’s face reddened. “He must not know. I-- I will inform him once he fetches them drinks.” Igor began sidling toward the refreshments at that.

Lucius kept watch even as he subtly followed to stay within earshot. His ward excused herself as Krum headed toward the table and his headmaster, throwing her arms around Draco, a redhead who painfully reminded him of Arthur Weasley (complete with the utterly ridiculous dress robes the boy wore), and the unfortunately well-liked Potter boy. Whilst Draco and Potter beamed at the lovely girl, the Weasley boy was grim faced.

He turned back to Igor just as the man tugged his student a little away from the line of those waiting for drinks.

“What do you think you are doing, bringing that girl as your date?”

Krum frowned, puzzled. “Herm-me-own-ee? Vy do you ask?”

“She is a mudblood, Viktor!” Igor ground out after surreptitiously checking the area around him. “You are embarrassing Durmstrang with her.”

“I did not know.” The young man squared himself, running a hand through his short hair. “Vat does it matter? Hogvarts has all kinds, and she is a clever student, and beautiful and kind and--”

“Viktor!” The older man hissed. “She is the mudblood ward of the Malfoy family, little more than a house elf or a slave. Would you bring a house elf to a ball?”

Krum’s jaw tightened. “I do not care. I-- I like her.” Before his headmaster could complain, the young man tugged his arm away and stalked back toward his date.

Igor called once again at Krum’s back, then collapsed into himself against the wall furiously. Lucius, having expected the boy to cast Miss Granger aside, humiliating her and putting her back in her place, shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One: I have always hated the way JKR had Krum say Hermione, so I changed it to something much more realistic. I'm a linguist; this actually makes sense. I also have a strange name myself, so I know how people mispronounce things.
> 
> Two: For those of you who don't like the Lumione tag, I understand. Really, I do. But this is currently the way the story is going (not as an end-point though). I'm trying to make it less creepy on the foster parent part. I don't know how far down the rabbit hole things will go. Just bear with me if you still want to Read the story. I will try to make sure I put up warnings and where you can start/end reading if those things bother you.
> 
> Three: Next chapter will include some Tom, so... Yeah. There's that.
> 
> Four: Sorry, Dramione fans. Draco thinks of Hermione as a sibling almost. Her happiness is his happiness.
> 
> Five: We are starting to get into the plot now. Out of the intro/set-up stuff. Bellatrix will be important.
> 
> Six: Yay for Krum not being bigoted!


	10. It Almost Feels Like Falling in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the Yule Ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no laptop, alas. My iPad seems to be working decently for the moment. Anyway, short chapter ahead.

Hermione was floating on air. People kept approaching her and telling her how beautiful she looked and how lucky she was to be with Viktor Krum, how they didn’t even recognize her. And Viktor was such a gentleman. He was happy to share her attention with her friends, Harry and Draco both claiming dances themselves while he sipped his punch and watched, talking with Susan or Parvati and Padma. Poor Parv looked miserable, as Ron was an abysmal date.

When Neville approached, bashful Neville who had bloomed over the summer into a handsome young man, Hermione told Ron he should dance with his sister.

“Sod off,” said the grumpy boy.

Ginny rolled her eyes and sat beside Harry instead.

“Er, Hermione?” Neville’s voice wavered and almost cracked. “Would you, er, maybe like to dance? If it’s alright?” He added the last hurriedly as he glanced over at Viktor.

“Of course. Do you mind, Viktor? Neville is a friend,” she said.

Viktor, who had seemed tense since he returned with their first drinks, but was slowly settling back into himself, nodded. So Hermione placed one of her hands in Neville’s much larger one and he led her onto the floor.

His other hand was the lightest touch at her waist. “You really look beautiful tonight, Hermione,” he whispered. Then his eyes widened. “Not that-- I mean, you’re always pretty. Just, tonight, everyone can see it.” He was steadfastly not looking at her face, color high on his cheeks.

“Thank you, Neville,” she murmured. He spun her deftly and, when his hand returned to her waist, it was a little more firm. As the song ended, she leaned up to hug him. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

A soft cough sounded beside them and she and Neville jumped apart as though they’d been caught doing something. A sly half quirk was on Professor Riddle’s lips. He was beyond handsome in his black dress robes, emerald tie, silver vest. Hermione swallowed and returned his smile, cheeks flushing. “May I cut in, Mr. Longbottom? Miss Granger promised me a dance before my chaperone shift ends.”

She had done no such thing, but did not gain say him as Neville politely excused himself and Professor Riddle’s long, tapered fingers wrapped around her own. He pulled her in closer to how Viktor had held her, a far cry from Neville’s careful distance, and the other hand was just a touch lower than her waist, curling around the soft curve of her hip, thumb against the top of the bone through her gown. This was the closest she had ever been to him and his scent encircled her so she became heady with it. Clean, sweetly spiced like cinnamon, something earthy like sandalwood underneath it all.

“You’re all the buzz in the castle now, Hermione,” he said after a short silence before the song kicked up.

She shrugged as best she could while in his arms, the hand on his bicep a fluttering thing. “It’s all the makeup and the dress,” she insisted.

The hand at her side left suddenly, her skin there oddly cool. The professor turned her chin toward him, curling along her jaw. Once she met his eyes, it returned to its previous place. “Nonsense. They’ve all just been blind. You’ve become a pretty young woman.”

Hermione’s heart was pounding her throat and she was sure he could see it. His dark eyes bored into hers and she suddenly realized they were blue. The darkest, deepest sapphire of the Mediterranean at night. She’d seen the sea somewhere, though she could not remember ever having been to Greece or Rome or Egypt. Her red lips parted to deny the compliment, but Professor Riddle swept in again first.

“You’re as beautiful as you are brilliant, sweetheart, just accept it.” There was something both sibilant and commanding to the words, and she nodded, blinking to pull herself out of the haze of his scent and his drowning eyes. The smile returned to his face, his teeth flashing white in his face. The rest of their dance passed with his unyielding hands on her, guiding her effortlessly. When it ended, he swept into a bow over her hand, lips just brushing the back of it to skirt propriety, jolting her core. “Thank you for the dance, Hermione.”

She stood on the floor alone, watching him walk away, until a touch at her elbow pulled her back into the present. Viktor stared curiously don at her. “Are you alright, Her-me-own-ee?”

“Yes,” she said unsteadily. “I just got a touch lightheaded from all the spinning. I didn’t expect Professor Riddle to ask.” Her date nodded and escorted her back to their table so she could sip her drink and gain her footing once more. Then they danced again, a bit more closely than before, Viktor’s thumb stroking her side through the thin material of her gown.

Between songs, he hesitated to take her hand again and instead studied her face. “Her-me-own-ee,” he hesitated. “Vould you care to go into the gardens?”

With Viktor's gentlemanly attention and the aftermath of Professor Riddle’s unexpected touch, she nodded. Outside the Entrance Hall was an enchanting rose garden, with pockets of shadow away from the fairies lighting up the world around them.

Viktor’s fingers twined with her own, pulling her into his side. “Headmaster Karkarov is unhappy with me,” he said at last.

“What?” Surprise flitted across her expression. Viktor was clearly a favorite of the brooding man. “Why?”

They halted after a turn around a fountain and she could see him waffling indecisively. “He-- he does not like that you are muggleborn.” At the the hurt flickering across her eyes, he said hurriedly, “I do not care, Her-me-own-ee.” Viktor took both of her hands in his and drew her from the main path. “You are beautiful and good and smart.” The back of his knuckles skimmed across her cheek. “I vould very much like to take you out to Hogsmeade the next time ve are able. And perhaps find time to see one another around the castle?”

At the rise in his voice, she nodded. “Yes,” she murmured. It felt so wonderful to know this boy, this man really, liked her regardless of her blood status. He didn’t just want her on his arm for the night, but genuinely desired her company and admired her. They had not gotten to talk nearly enough, and she relished the idea of a date in Hogsmeade away from his exciteable fans. His hand cupped her jaw and she saw his eyes lingering on her lips after she’d said the word, then darting back to meet her own gaze curiously.

Hermione slid closer, laying her free hand on his shoulder, and he took the invitation slowly, so she had ample time to pull away. As his gaze was firmly fixed on her lips and her eyes fluttered shut, it was no real surprise when his warm mouth planted over hers. His lips were gentle at first, and the masculine scent of his aftershave permeated the air. When her hand stroked up to the soft grain of his short hair, Viktor tugged her body against his and his tongue swept against the seam of her lips. She parted them with uncertainty, then made a little sound as his tongue stroked hers.

The world around them swam away in the sweet press of his mouth and warm touches on his waist, her hips, her neck, never deviating to a place of danger, but delicious all the same.

\--  
The rest of the holiday break passed in a whirl and soon the second task was upon them.

While Viktor made sure to spend time with her, the lead up to the day found him tired. It didn’t help that Ron had been an utter prat the entire time and was now steadily refusing to speak to her, saying she was a traitor and if she wanted to show her true colors, she should just go and snog ‘Vicky.’

Draco, who had more reason than the redhead to be loyal to Cedric, worked with Harry to act as a buffer between the two. “Really, Weasel, she’s still cheering Ced on. How is she a traitor?”

Ron blazed crimson and muttered something under his breath that Hermione was sure wasn’t flattering to anyone.

“Yeah, Ron,” Harry piped in. “Besides, didn’t you ask Fleur Delacour to be your date?”

“What?” Hermione had yet to hear the story of how her friend, besotted by the beauty of the Beauxbaton Champion, had dreamily strode up to Fleur and mangled words together so badly it wasn’t even clear exactly what he was asking. Harry regaled her while she and Draco practically fell out of their seats from laughter.

Thus was the time between the Yule Ball and the Second Task probably the best she’d had in her fifteen year life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Lucius didn't ruin everything. Next up is the second task.


	11. Quick Quills and Sad Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall-out of the Yule Ball and the Second Task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that not everything is going to follow canon here. Changing bits and pieces of the Triwizard Tournament other than just eliminating Harry from it. And yes, Harry has siblings, they just aren't in play right now.

"Merlin, ‘Mione, you look like a drowned rat!”

The fifteen-year-old, who had been trying to push her sodden curls from her face, glared up at her gangly friend. “Thanks, Ronald.” She was finally warm, thanks to the warming charm Professor Riddle had cast, but the sharp cold of the Black Lake had penetrated far inside her, bone-deep. 

Hermione finally managed to tie her hair back, then cast a drying spell (really, how had no one thought to do that before?). The loose little curls frizzed out in a halo that would have given Lady Cissa a conniption, but Hermione ignored them, feeling much more herself now that she was dry and warm and out of the water.

“I am so sorry, Her-me-own-ee,” Viktor said, pulling her into him. His head was finally fully transfigured back to its normal rugged handsomeness; when she’d surfaced beside a strange shark creature, she had nearly drowned herself in terror, despite having been told what was happening before she was put under (preening at the idea that she was the most precious person to Viktor at Hogwarts).

Hermione felt oddly beloved for the first time she could remember, surrounded as she was by people who cared for her. Draco, Harry, and Ron had all three crowded her the moment they saw her flop out of the water. Professor Riddle had already been there with blanket in-hand, assisting the Heads with managing the task, and Viktor had clung to her throughout his transfiguration and discussion with Karkarov over the events that had occurred underwater as Fleur Delacour finally surfaced with her sister.

“For not only being the swiftest of all Champions, but also assisting his fellow Champion, Miss Delacour, we have awarded forty-seven points to Cedric Diggory! For brilliant use of transfiguration in rescuing Miss Granger, we award Viktor Krum with forty points! And finally, for resilience in the face of almost certain defeat, we award Fleur Delacour with thirty points!”

“I’m surprised they gave her so many, considering she wouldn’t have been able to finish the task without Cedric’s help,” muttered Draco.

“Zee grindylows proved too difficult for Fleur to handle on her own,” Hermione said with a laugh. “Perhaps they are not on the curriculum for Beauxbatons students.” That was the only explanation she could see, as the swarming creatures were not native to France. 

Professor Riddle, whom she’d assumed was focused on the announcements Mr. Crouch was intoning, chastised her gently. “Not all students are so blessed in their professors, Hermione.”

She reddened, but nodded.

That evening it seemed half of Hogwarts celebrated in the Hufflepuff common room. Hermione and the boys were welcomed in by Draco, who led them into his dorm to collect the special chocolates his mother had sent in anticipation of the win. They were infused with honey from magical bees, who produced the golden syrup that had the edge of euphoria. 

Hermione felt slightly guilty for not celebrating with Viktor, but the one time she had gone aboard their ship, the whispers and stares had blanketed her in a melancholy the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since her first social event with the Malfoys. Oddly, Professor Riddle had gone with Headmaster Karkarov after the task, the latter looking almost nervous to her eyes.

Three mornings later, The Daily Prophet brought with it the most ridiculous bit of libel Hermione had ever read. Which was saying something, as she often perused the society pages to keep up with Pureblood happenings. 

“Miss Granger, a passingly pretty young witch of unfortunate birth most notable for her know-it-all attitude, has a history of ingratiating herself to those above her station. She is currently a ward of the Malfoy family, and reportedly has the Pureblood heir wrapped around her little finger. Young Draco Malfoy was no doubt heartbroken to see his own constant companion on the arm of Quidditch star Viktor Krum.

“Additionally, she can often be seen fawning over famed Auror James Potter’s oldest child, Harry Potter.”

Hermione growled in irritation and disgust, lip curling as she tossed down the wrinkled paper. “Rita Skeeter is a gossiping cow!”

“I dunno, ‘Mione, Malfoy is looking mighty peaky lately.” Harry glanced over at the Hufflepuff table, where Draco was elbowing Susan Bones with a mischievous grin. “You can see it in his eyes. You’ve positively broken him. Right, Ron?”

The redhead grinned. “Oh yeah. And Harry’s been absolutely wrecked. Wails every night, he does. We have to silence the whole dorm--”

“Oi!” Harry poked Ron. “I do not wail.”

“Do too,” Ron said adamantly. “Sounds like a dying kneazle, it does. Drives Seamus batty.”

Neville snickered, distracted from his own conversation with the mentioned boy. “He weren’t far from it. But why’s this now?”

Harry and Ron eagerly explained the article and how Hermione was stringing along all of them, and they were now heartbroken at her treacherous, lecherous (Ron was proud of the rhyme) ways. 

“Oh, yeah,” Neville chirped. “We Gryffindor boys are all in love with Hermione, right Seamus?”

“Wot?”

The girl, who was laughing in spite of herself, threw up her hands. “Honestly, you’re insufferable, all of you!”

While those who knew her, like the Gryffindor boys in her year and Draco, knew the Prophet story was rubbish, too many others were glad to see the muggleborn scholar brought low, and indulged in whispering and name calling. She was an early riser by nature, but started waking even earlier, to make her morning ablutions in peace and be out of the Great Hall before most of the student population had risen.

Some of the professors were even keen on the rumors, like Professor Snape, who made snide allusions whenever she paired with Harry at Potions (thus, she was prone to pairing with Neville instead, though that wrought its own difficulties).

She masked herself behind perfectly quaffed locks and shining leather shoes, every inch of herself the ward of Narcissa Malfoy, who believed appearances were the first line of defense in battle or politics. However, not even Lady Cissa could have prepared her for the unexpected bite that came in DADA one day.

Professor Riddle had asked a question to which Hermione did not know the answer-- she would later find the information about the Unforgivable wasn’t readily available outside of the restricted section-- and she had said, “I’m afraid I don’t know, Professor. I thought there wasn’t a way to counter the Killing Curse?”

“Perhaps, Miss Granger, if you spent less time canoodling with Viktor Krum and more time studying, you would have read about the rumors that a sacrifice borne out of love may shield the intended target,” he’d responded coolly. The Slytherins with whom they had class had hissed in wicked glee to see the lioness called out.

The truth was that Hermione did little with the Champion since the task, put off by the article, the rumors, and how very interested in her Viktor seemed. It wasn’t a relationship that could continue, with the daunting distance between them. Narcissa had cautioned her to be careful, that some Purebloods were happy to mix with muggleborns while younger, but would discard them when marriageable prospects became available. 

“Time will only tell what sort Viktor Krum is, my dear,” Lady Cissa had written.

Hermione hung back after class the day Professor Riddle had humiliated her. He was about his business and seemed not to notice her, forcing her to clear her throat and begin, uncertain, “Professor, I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to offend--”

His dark eyes hit her like a dart and the words stuck in her throat. “Offended? Because a bright young woman like you is proving even the clever students of today aren’t above hormone-driven foolishness? Not at all, Miss Granger.”

Her brows crinkled. “I’m not that sort of girl at all! I’ve hardly seen Viktor--”

“Is that so?” Professor Riddle walked around to lean his backside against the desk, looming over her more effectively. “You have not wasted yourself snogging away with Krum? Karkarov certainly thinks you have-- what was the phrase-- ‘sunk your filthy claws firmly into the boy so that he has eyes only for you.’ And a stubborn young man like that, whom witches throw themselves at so easily…” He shrugged. “What is one to assume?”

Feet frozen in place, face flushed red with horror, Hermione did not know where to begin. She knew Viktor liked her, but this implied he was besotted, bespelled almost. People were-- people thought she was-- that she was-- “I’ve never engaged in more than a little kissing,” she whispered at last, her gaze having fallen to her leather shoes. “A little more, erm, enthusiastic during the ball, perhaps, but all rather harmless and fully clothed, I assure you. I’ve no idea why Viktor likes me so much; I’ve caused him nothing but trouble.”

Tom Riddle’s much larger, just as perfectly polished, leather shoes appeared at the upper edge of her vision, followed by his hand as he tipped her chin up. Her eyes shook with sudden hot tears that trickled down her cheeks. Whereas he’d been cold and sharp the last few weeks, his features were warm and interested now. “You’ve only exchanged a few kisses?” She nodded furiously and he chuckled, cupping her cheek. “I forget sometimes what it’s like to be so young. And I confess, there were never any girls worthy of attention when I attended Hogwarts. Vapid and concerned mostly with engagements. Perhaps I’m being unfair. You’re mature in so many ways, but not this one. When it comes to physical charms, you’re still a child.”

She wiped away her tears, frowning. “I’m not a child. I know about things.”

He laughed and leaned back again. “I’m sure you do, sweetheart. You’re clever. What did Albus say? Ah, the cleverest witch of your age.” His narrowed, suddenly sly. “You know, that’s what they called me. Some still do. And others call me even greater titles.”

“Like what?” Hermione was suddenly aflutter, butterflies sweeping away the sorrow that had weighed her down, eager to see more of this version of her professor, intimating to her as though they were equals. 

“All in good time, Hermione. Now get along, before Draco thinks I’ve murdered his companion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait... I write more slowly on pieces that don't have themselves all the way worked out. However, this chapter really helped me with some of the kinks (like in a hose, not the bedroom). The direction of this story might be shifting more than I thought, but it's still too early to see.
> 
> Anyway, Tomione fans rejoice! More is coming.


	12. Favoritism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourth year ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! A chapter at long last...
> 
> Please note that Lily Potter was an Institution muggleborn and, thus, not neighbors with Snape. I've kept some of the rivalry, though it mainly focuses on Snape and Sirius, with James caring less about it.

A pregnant silence permeated the stands, the crowd staring, every set of eyes wide and every mouth agape. No one had predicted this result. No one. And then a single student began to clap, then another, another. Pockets of students cried out amid the multitude.

Hermione was the first in her friend groups, though Ron’s sister Ginny soon joined in. The red head elbowed her brother and finally the boys picked up the cheer. 

In front of the now-roaring crowd stood Fleur Delacour, the Triwizard Cup in-hand. While she had been at the rear of the Champions, the one who ahead need assistance to get through the second task, she had seemingly floated through the maze that covered the Quidditch field. Clever enough that the Sphinx's riddle didn’t have her, confident in spelling away the boggart, all the while the two male Champions had been distracted by trying to figure out how to get ahead of the other. While they had worked to waylaying one another, neither had given a thought for the Veela-esque girl herself.

“So does this mean she wins?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ronald. This means she wins. Didn’t you pay attention to the announcements before the task began?” He didn’t respond. If anything, he seemed rather put off that the girl had won over his fellow Hogwarts student and a Quidditch superstar.

Cedric was second out of the maze, but Viktor was a close third. When Hermione was finally allowed to join him, he was muttering something about the Sphinx. She gathered that the riddle he’d been given was based on wordplay. As a non-native English speaker, he felt he’d been at a disadvantage.

However, he did not want to complain since Fleur was also not a native English speaker and she had managed well enough. “If it were between me and the Hufflepuff, perhaps it would haff made a difference. But Fleur, she is far more clever than both of us.” 

It was a fair admission, and Cedric probably would have wanted a just adjudication in such a situation. 

The next few days were a flurry of finishing up schoolwork and repairing for the end of term, all the while trying to spend time with new friends. Hermione and Viktor promised to exchange letters until they could meet again, and they shared a few stolen kisses before he finally had to sail away.

“Miss Granger.” 

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin, a hand flying to her chest in relief as she recognized the smooth voice of her favorite professor. “Professor Riddle, you startled me.”

“My apologies, sweetheart, it wasn’t my intent.” She blushed both at the endearment and his smile that showed just a hint of the perfect teeth beneath. “I just wanted to wish you well before you leave for the summer. And, of course, let you know to expect some correspondence in regards to our little project.”

Her eyes shone at that, all teenage self-consciousness forgotten in the face of academic pursuits. “Oh, yes! I’m so very excited for that. I’ve already drawn up drafts for the club charter, pending your revisions of course, and have a list of proposed rules and restrictions based upon past clubs of a similar nature-- particularly previous dueling clubs. Will there be dueling, professor? I know it is a Defense--”

Warm laughter like chocolate down her throat interrupted the verbal stream from the girl and her face burned hot once again. “Hermione, Hermione, if you keep up like this, you’ll miss the train.” Riddle laid a hand on her shoulder, and that part of her anatomy nearly sang at the contact. “I’m sure you have it well in-hand. I gave Horace the proposal earlier-- or tried to, at any rate-- and he’s already approved it.”

She beamed up at him, clapping her hands together excitedly. “I’m so happy to hear that! When will the first meeting be?”

“We will talk about that over the summer, or perhaps when you come back after summer hols.” He tipped his head, an errant curl dropping over his forehead. “I daresay you’ll have plenty to think about when you return next year, hmm?” His dark blue eyes twinkled knowingly. “Are you sure you aren’t biting off more than you can chew?”

“Professor, I hardly think assisting you will put me over my limit, even with studying for my O.W.L.s”

“You don’t think that’s all the additional responsibility you’ll have surely?” His thumb stroked the length of her collarbone. “It is your fifth year, after all. And you’re an exemplary student in every way.”

The words settled heavily in Hermione’s chest, a pleasant, heady weight. “Oh.” She suddenly found herself unable to meet his eyes, staring instead at his starched white button-up shirt. “Well, books and cleverness. There are more important things-- bravery and-- and--”

“Ah, yes, always the good little Gryffindor.” He tipped her chin up so she would meet his gaze again. “I’ll put some ambition in you yet, Miss Granger. Bring out your inner Slytherin. Now get going; you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

She was already halfway to the common room before she realized Professor Riddle had revealed his own house-leanings. He always strived to be so fair that she’d wondered if he’d been a Hufflepuff. Common rumor was that he’d been a Ravenclaw. But a Slytherin? Then again, he’d worn silver and green with his dress robes at the Yule ball.

She pondered her dealings with Professor Riddle, wondering if she was reading too deeply into his words, all while gathering her things to meet with Ron and Harry in the common room. Draco was waiting for them just outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, though he’d had to come up all the way from the Hufflepuff dorms and they were just going back down again. Usually she would have lectured him on wasting time, but now her brows were knit and she was distracted. While her two Gryffindor mates hadn’t noticed, Draco did.

“What’s got you all in your head, ‘Mione?” He bumped her shoulder with his arm (his own shoulder now well above hers thanks to growth spurts that made his bones ache).

“Hm?” She allowed the boys to help her with her trunk as they loaded into the train and found their own compartment. “Oh, just a conversation I was having with Professor Riddle before leaving the castle.” She settled by the window and blinked out at Hogsmeade before turning to him. “Did you know Professor Riddle was in Slytherin as a student?”

Draco frowned, clearly not expecting that question. “What? Er, yeah, I think Father mentioned it before.”

Hermione drummed her fingers again her skirt. “He doesn’t seem like much of Slytherin. He’s never treated me differently.”

Across from her Harry laughed. “He treats you differently alright, Mione. But not because you’re muggleborn.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re his favorite, bloody know-it-all.” Ron’s smile took the edge off his words.

“I’m not his favorite,” she insisted, though butterflies batted their wings in her stomach and she was secretly pleased that even Ronald had noticed how Professor Riddled liked her.

The boys all started joking at her denial, and that turned into talk about teachers’ pets in general. Somehow, despite not even taking his class, Professor Dumbledore adored Harry. Professor Snape liked exactly noone, though he seemed to hate Slytherins slightly less than Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors significantly more. Harry’s parents had gone to school around the same time and his godfather and Snape had loathed one another. 

“Mum felt kinda bad for him though, so she begged Sirius to leave off him,” said Harry between bites of chocolate frog. 

“With that nose, anyone would feel bad,” Ron mumbled.

She tutted. “Seriously, Ronald, his nose isn’t that long. Why did she feel bad for him?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully. “He was, well, a bit out of place. Apparently he was poor and everything he owned was secondhand. And he’s not a pureblood, which is almost asking for trouble as a Slytherin.”

“Is he a halfblood then?” She hadn’t known, though she’d never heard of a wizarding family by the name of Snape. 

“Must be. Muggleborns are rather rare in Slytherin from what I understand,” Draco remarked. “I can’t actually think of any offhand. And I am definitely not going to ask Father to expand on that topic.”

Hermione cringed at the thought, though another soon followed on its tail. “What about Professor Riddle? I don’t think he’s a pureblood.”

“Must be; I’ve never met another Riddle.” Draco rubbed at the faint fuzz on his chin. “I don’t have the faintest what his blood status is, but he’s rather well respected even amongst Slytherins.” He sighed and shook his head. “It looks as though we are coming into Kings Cross, so…” He trailed off, but they all knew what he meant. Discussing blood status, particularly in a group of mixed status, was not polite, though they were all friends. 

“Right.” Harry nodded and stood, leading their group as per his usual, and they trudged out much the same as they’d come in.

Mister and Missus Potter were the nearest parents to them with Harry’s sister trying hide from the noise and crowding, and they greeted the children eagerly. “Hermione, dear, you’re absolutely blossoming!” was Lily Potter’s hello to the girl. The fellow muggleborn was everything she aspired to be-- clever enough that many called her the exception to the rule (as though blood status meant anything about intelligence), particularly skilled in charms and potions, warm, and undoubtedly beautiful. 

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably. “Thank you, Mrs. Potter, but it’s all Lady Cissa’s doing…”

“Hardly, dear. Oh, and there’s Molly!” 

Molly Weasley was busy herding the twins while looking over people’s heads as best she could to find Ginny. “Ronald Weasley,” she cried out over the hubbub. “There you are. Why you children can’t all arrange to stay together on the platform, I don’t know. Oh, hello Harry, dear. And Hermione, of course. Draco, you’ve sprouted another foot, I swear!”

The Weasley matriarch always somehow included everyone. She was soon swept up in chatter with her fellow redhead about how exciting next year would be with Violet finally joining her older brother. Harry puffed up when he overheard something about him looking after her.

“Draco, stop lollygagging.”

It was instinct that had Hermione jumping this time. She knew that voice, that tone, and had heard her companion’s name said that way enough times that she was instantly on edge, teetering onto her toes to find Lucius Malfoy staring over at them in annoyance.

He never came to gather them from the station. Hermione roped an arm through Draco’s and pulled him along toward his father, eyes already downcast and demure. 

“You should know better than to crowd the platform. Do you have everything?” He surveyed the pair and Hermione could practically feel his gaze roving over her disapprovingly despite not having acknowledged her. “Good, come along.”

They hurried toward the apparition point after exchanging a glance behind Lucius’ back. The man laid a hand on one shoulder each, and the tug behind her navel announced their travel to her. With a jerk and a lurch, they landed outside the gates of Malfoy Manor.

Home.

It did not feel like a homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dealing with quite a bit. Not sure I want to bore people with details. Maybe I should make a Tumblr account for that and ramblings, or something? Uhm, let's see...
> 
> Oh, I've been working on original pieces a lot, to include finishing a novel I might submit to an agent. And working on e-publishing dark erotica. So, go me, I guess? I had to quit work for health reasons.
> 
> Anyway, I have not and will not abandon this piece. We are getting into the dark places, creeping to the edge of what I've been envisioning. I'm hoping this will pick up my writing pace. And starting fifth year, we will have a *lot* more Tom. 
> 
> I know the lumione tag is concerning some people, but I don't want to say too much lest I give things away... hold in there!


	13. Politics: Many bloodsucking parasites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming is not so happy...

"Draco! Darling!” 

The shrieking exclamation grated down Hermione’s spine like nails against a chalkboard. She knew that voice, hated that voice. And surely enough it was followed up by the voluptuous, cruel beauty that was Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black. She wore one of her numerous black, frilled, corseted ball gowns that displayed a perfect expanse of pale cleavage that Draco visibly flinched away from when she threw herself at him for a hug. 

“Oh, look at you,” she simpered, ruffling the young man’s pale locks. “You’ve grown up. You must be as tall as I am now. And I still think of you as the little tot who just wanted to twirl with Aunt Bella. Well, dear, give me a kiss.” Bellatrix presented him with her cheek, which he dutifully pressed his lips to before extracting himself under the guise of greeting his mother.

Hermione had frozen just inside the door, unsure whether it was safe to move forward. Often not moving was the best way to deal with Slytherins; evade notice, evade tongue lashings, evade the chance of punishment.

Alas, as soon as Draco had passed to the relative safety of his mother’s arms, the black-eyed woman turned her burning gaze to Hermione.

“I see the mudblood has also returned.”

The girl straightened up to her full (short) height, forcing her features to remain smooth. “Lady Lestrange,” she greeted with a nod that was not quite a curtsy. It was always best to be especially polite and dull with Bellatrix.

“Indeed.” Lucius sneered as he passed his ward and exchanged an air-kiss with his sister-in-law. “Though of late her value has decreased. She may soon prove more trouble than anything.”

This was the point at which Narcissa intervened, taking Hermione’s hand to her own and interrupting whatever her sister might have said in response. “Hermione, dear, I believe an owl arrived for you recently? Your correspondence is in your bedroom.”

“Thank you,” she murmured as the woman pressed their cheeks together, then excused herself to the stairs.

There was a letter from Viktor detailing his journey home. She flopped onto her bed and skimmed through it, her heart not quite in reading. Bellatrix Lestrange was here, and it seemed she had been for a little while. How long was she going to stay? And what would she do while she was here?

She glanced at her clock to see there were only two hours until dinner. She still needed to unpack; Hermione preferred to do that herself rather than have the elves do it, since that way she could organize her things and properly decompartmentalize her year. However, with Bellatrix there it was best she focused on getting ready for that ordeal.

\---  
Dinner had been an uncomfortable affair for everyone except the guest of honor. Lucius had adjourned to his study as soon as was appropriate and was now sipping brandy at his desk. 

Bella’s visit was ostensibly to spend time with her sister, but in actuality she was securing Malfoy support in hers and her husband’s political agenda. They were throwing their weight behind Augustus Rookwood for next Minister for Magic. Lucius could not personally see why, as the Unspeakable was hardly the most liked candidate in the running. Still…

In the last year his sister-in-law had been inviting close friends of similar beliefs to her home for dinner parties. It was mostly men, a few wives in tow, but they always wound up drinking and discussing the state of things in the country. 

“We allow mudbloods to essentially buy their way into our world,” she’d complained once. “And while I… appreciate… certain usages for them in society,” and she nodded to him then, “but working in our government? Owning property?” With a long-suffering sigh, Bella had dropped into the seat beside her husband. 

She was right, of course. Lucius had seen the insidious ideologies of mudbloods who attained authority in wizarding society; the Potter family had diluted itself with that redheaded muggleborn and he’d heard enough from Draco to know that family had a television and watched cinema on it. Their son had shown off some of it to Draco and even speculated on how to bring it into the wizarding world. 

“Here you are, Lucius, I almost thought you’d gone to bed already.” Bellatrix stood at his door, a hand on her tightly corseted waist. “You practically fled the dinner table.”

He quirked a brow at her red pout and took another swig of his drink, the pleasant burn running down his throat. “I saw no point in drawing out such a stilted meal.”

“I was having fun.” She sauntered to him in a gliding sashay of voluminous skirts and swept the tumbler from his hand to take a drink. “It is so disappointing to see my sister and my nephew taken with that mudblood, but at least it is slightly amusing to watch the girl’s inability to control her expressions.” Lucius took back his drink, eyeing his sister-in-law flatly. “She’s pretty enough, your little mudblood. Is that why Draco likes her?”

He coughed out brandy onto his chest. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged innocently and reached over him (her corseted bosom on eye level) to pour herself a drink, settling in the chair across from him. “He’s at that age. And you mentioned trouble…”

Lucius flicked his wand to rid himself of the mess and smoothed back some of his hair. “No, of course not. If anything, his feelings are… Familial.” He sighed. “She has been getting attention of that nature.”

Bella tipped her head in question.

“She has caught the eye of the Bulgarian seeker, Krum. You heard he was the Champion for Durmstrang?” It was common enough knowledge and she nodded, dark eyes sparkling. “You should have seen it, Bellatrix. The girl was all glamoured up in a gown I’m sure Narcissa spent at least a hundred galleons on, and she’d tamed that ridiculous hair further. There was a picture in The Prophet. I’m surprised you did’t see it.”

She tapped a manicured nail against her crystal tumbler. “Do you have your copy on hand?” He accio’d it and handed it over, a picture of the girl demurely looking away from date with a blush as he murmured to her gracing the front of the society section. “Well.”

“Karkaroff didn’t even know she was a mudblood, and apparently Krum has taken after the Weasleys.” He sneered and poured more of the amber liquor in his glass. “I have heard about it nearly nonstop. We took her in, gave her a place in our world, and she has taken it upon herself to elevate herself to our level.”

Bella tutted. “It is the worst sort of filth, a little muddy social climber. I quite understand your anger, Lucius, but what do you intend to do about it?”

“Do?” He blinked at her. “Considering the position mudblood a have begun taking recently in our ministry, what can I do?”

“Well, she is still your ward until sheiks of age. That’s, what, two years off?”

“Mm.” He hummed and shook his head. “As the law is written, it extends to graduation for mudblood wards. A layer of protection since they are without inheritance or position upon coming of age.”

“Perfect.” The way she purred the word had him leaning toward her in expectation. “You need to use your position as her guardian to put her in her place, Lucius. Punish her for her audacity. And throw your support behind Augustus.” She held up a hand before he could interrupt. “I know you are hesitant, but he has the same values as we share. He does not wish to see our society crumble into a muggle mess either. And he has even drafted laws to keep them at the appropriate level.”

“And what is that?” He swirled the glass, dangling from long fingers, alcohol forming a small whirlpool.

“Not dissimilar to what you have here. They would be cared for by the government in exchange for labor. Some might be sponsored by decent families. And those who don’t wish to be a part of a society would have the Trace kept on them out in the muggle world.” 

“And when fools like James Potter marry their mudbloods?” 

Bella’s wild curls shook with her head. “Lucius, Lucius, they wouldn’t be allowed to marry. In fact, they should either be allowed to procreate only with their own, or be sterilized entirely. With that last, those with weaker self control wouldn’t have to worry about bringing half blooded bastards into the world.”

He shuddered to think of ending a lineage as old as his with Draco marrying a mudblood. Still… “Sterilization is rather final, is it not?”

She waved the paper with his ward’s blushing visage on it. “Given the reaction to your ward, do you not think it a smart move?”

Lucius shrugged. “Perhaps a long-term contraceptive for mudbloods that could only be lifted by the ministry?”

Bella thought about that for a moment. “That is at least a step in the right direction. And more easily supported; they do breed like rabbits.” She simpered indulgently at him. “See? You are already contributing invaluable ideas to the cause. Say you’ll join us, Lucius. Please?”

He downed the rest of his nightcap. “Alright. Consider me in.”

As he stood, she threw herself at him in an eager embrace. “You won’t regret this.” He extricated himself from her arms and headed toward the study door. Before he could reach it, one of her pale hands gripped his forearm. “And do work on punishing your mudblood for her impertinence. She will never learn otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is setting up some of the darker aspects of the plot... But we will eventually get to the way this impacts Tom's bid for power. We won't have a lot of summer chapters, one, maaaaybe two. Then we will be back at Hogwarts.


	14. Cruelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets on Bellatrix's bad side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people are not going to like this chapter, but I've been building toward this for a while and it's been fairly transparent (I hope). CW: abuse.
> 
> You can come yell at me on Twitter @FaroreF

Hermione spent most of her time without Draco in the library. Those times were infrequent and the boy joined her in the library more often than not, but other than her bedroom or the bath, it was one of the few places she could ever be found alone. 

Draco was off visiting Blaise Zabini, whom she could hardly stand in classes, let alone during her free time. So she had opted to stay and study.

She was deep in a volume of the history of House Elves and their connection with wizarding families when there was a slight prickling at the back of her neck, that eerie feeling of being watched. She resisted the urge to look behind herself or squirm, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Hermione was fairly certain she knew who it was, and ignoring the interloper was the best option. 

Of course, some pests refuse to be ignored.

One of Hermione’s smokey brown curls rose from its place around her face, twisting and twirling. The girl slowly looked up to see Bellatrix curling it around her finger.

“Cissy really has taught you how to play yourself off like a real lady, hasn’t she? All tamed and demure. Hmm?” Mischief glinted in the wild woman’s eyes. 

“Lady Narcissa has taught me a great deal,” she responded evenly. “If you please, I’m studying.” She backed away so the lock eased from Bella’s pale finger, but the maniac caught it before it could slip away.

“Now don’t be rude, mudblood. I just wanted a little chat.”

Displeasure coiled in Hermione’s chest; before Draco’s mad aunt visited, that term had not been said in Hermione’s presence in some time. Narcissa did not like it said in her home, and Draco and the boys would jump on anyone who dared use it in their earshot. It had created quite the rift between Draco and some of his previous Slytherin friends.

“I would prefer if you did not use that word.” Hermione was proud at how indifferent her voice came out.

Bellatrix grinned, her white teeth flashing brightly in a brightly painted mouth. “What word is that, mudblood?” Her black eyes twinkled at the heat in the brown eyes of her conversation partner. “It’s too bad that you’re just hired help and I’m family, then, isn’t it?”

Gryffindor fury roared through the teen and, before she could think better, Hermione stood so abruptly her chair flung out from beneath her with a stuttered screech. Her wand was in her hand as she faced down the older witch. “You will not call me that.”

“You would raise your wand to me?” Bellatrix lifted one black brow, the smile falling from her lips. “Do you honestly think you could hold your own against me, mudblood?”

Hermione’s nostrils flared. “I am not without talent.”

A hint of crow’s feet crinkled as the pale witch’s eyes narrowed. Before she could open her scarlet mouth, though, a cold voice cut through.

“Is that so, Miss Granger?” 

Hermione went rigid, white knuckling her wand as the unmistakable rhythm of Lucius Malfoy’s steps approached. The end of his cane tapped at the robes she had on and she turned obediently, wand hand dropping to her side. 

Lucius was not a small man. He easily stood a head taller than her and seemed of an even greater height, his shoulders broad and his appearance immaculate. His white hair was tied back with a silver ribbon and his icy eyes bespoke irritation. With her.

“Did I just hear you threaten our guest?”

Hermione rolled her lips, considering her response. “No, my lord--”

“Really?” She held herself from flinching back. “That is not how it appeared to me when I happened to walk past the library just a moment ago. Imagine my surprise, Hermione--” And here she did flinch. Lucius almost never used her first name. “-- when I heard you telling Bella you were, what was it, not without talent? And given your aggressive stance and the words my sister-in-law had just uttered, I am most certain I did not mistake the context. Or am I an idiot?”

The last word was spat out harshly and she knew better than to agree. Instead, she was quite stuck. “I-- I’m sorry, my lord.”

“It is not only me who needs to forgive you.”

Bellatrix rose, a cat staring at a broken canary. “I think she’s only sorry she got caught, Lucius.”

“I think you may be right, Bella.” He pondered the girl coldly, then shook his head. Hermione thought he almost looked disappointed, and guilt churned in her stomach. She’d let her Gryffindor pride get ahead of her. “It seems discipline is in order.”

Her eyes widened to galleons. “My lord, please. It was a foolish mistake. I didn’t mean-- I would  _ never _ \--”

“It was foolish, yes,” the man interjected. “And you will thus be corrected. Come, girl. Stand and bend over the desk.”

Her face flushed red. It had been years since Lucius had taken a hand to her bottom, most infractions small enough to warrant nonphysical punishment or just a rap of wand across her palms or knuckles (she could never decide which was worse). But she knew better than to disagree. The more quiescent she was, the quicker it would all be done. 

As the large man moved beside her, Bellatrix tutted. “She’ll hardly feel anything through all of that clothing, Lucius.”

“Robes off,” he commanded, and Hermione grudgingly did as ordered, neatly folding the deep navy robe on the desk before laying forward once more in her cream dress.

“Skirt too, mudblood,” purred Bellatrix.

Hermione bolted back up. “Absolutely not!”

A hand pressed at her back. “Get back down.” The words were bitingly harsh and she slowly lowered her front half once more.

“I will not lift my skirt,” she grumbled as she laid her cheek on the wood of the desk, head turned away from her guardian. “It isn’t appropriate.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Lucius responded evenly. “And it was Bella whom you wronged. I think she is entitled to an opinion on your correction.” He shifted and she saw the dark haired woman nod. The weight of her skirt lifted and a slight draft wound its way over her exposed bottom. Hermione pressed her lashes shut, tears of mortification sticking them together. 

Her knickers were blue, simple. At least she wasn’t wearing something particularly childish today. And how fortunate that she disliked the idea of thongs or other minimal undergarments.

Lucius was standing over her, shifting in what she imagined was discomfort. One large hand rested weightedly on the small of her back and the other lifted in the air.

“Wait,” came Bella’s silky voice. “She threatened my life, Lucius.”

Silence.

“Use the cane.”

A strangled sound wormed out of Hermione’s throat, eyes popping open, and she tried to rise again. But Bella waved her wand and the girl was stuck in place. She couldn’t even kick her legs. 

“Ten strokes?” said the man.

“I suppose,” replied the witch.

The teen closed her eyes once more, scrunching her face as she tried to prepare for the impact, but  _ nothing _ could have readied her enough. The thin black cane whipped through the air and hit upon her skin with a sharp  _ whack! _

Heat bloomed a blink later, right along the line beneath her buttocks. She gasped at the searing pain, breath forced from her body in shock. 

The second stroke whistled and whipped, just slightly crossing the first. She thought she would cry, the pain sharp and white hot and making her toes and fingers curl in what little movement her body was allowed. 

By the fourth, tears of pain and mortification streamed down her cheeks.

Seven finally forced a scream out of her, and by eight she had thrown off the curse keeping her still. She arced rigidly at the ninth and Lucius had to lay his forearm across her back, leaning his weight into her.

“Keep  _ still _ ,” he hissed. His elbow was digging into her, but it was nothing to the heat of the cane. He held her there until she stopped fidgeting and only then brought down the final stroke.

Hermione collapsed onto the table, the tension leaving her body as she realized the ordeal was over, skirt drifting back over her thighs. She was just managing to hold back full-throated sobs, instead pathetic little whimpers coming out, hopefully too soft to be heard.

“You will never threaten anyone in my family again, is that understood?”

She blinked through the tears to see Lucius had lowered himself to stare directly into her eyes. His face was stern. 

“Well?”

Hermione nodded succinctly. 

“Good. Then we should never have to repeat this experience.” He murmured a cleansing charm for his cane and stalked toward the door. “Come, Bella. Leave the girl be. I feel the sudden need for brandy.”

Bellatrix’s black eyes shone as she watched the girl silently cry, hesitantly tearing away from Hermione. “That sounds delightful.” She glided to him and slipped a dainty hand on Lucius’ arm. “I’ll see you at dinner, mudblood.”

When they finally left, Hermione scurried to her room, making sure no one saw her on the way. She threw herself on her carefully made bed and tugged the drapes around it closed before curling into a ball.

There in the dark, close comfort of her bed, she broke into throaty, whole-body sobs. Her lower body, especially her backside, throbbed with heat.


	15. Of Badges and Betters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco get their letters. They will be returning to Hogwarts next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A touch of Tom, a hint of Lucius' darkness.

“Hermione, our Hogwarts letters are here!” She was trudging tiredly through the hall when Draco’s peppy voice ricocheted off the walls. “I think… I think I’ve been made prefect! Hurry up or I’ll open yours for you.”

The witch shook her head and slipped into her seat across from him. “Really, Draco, you’re impossible. Some of us like to have a lie-in every now and then.”

He frowned. “You’ve been sleeping quite a lot lately. Are you alright?”

She had not told her best friend about what happened between her, his father, and his aunt. She had been having dreams about it, strange dreams that woke her drenched in sweat and flushed to her bones. She was usually able to drift back off, but the dreams were disturbing enough that she had privately asked Lady Cissa for Dreamless Sleep, citing nightmares. Narcissa has fortunately taken pity on her.

“Yes, I just had a headache last night and didn’t sleep well.” 

He nodded, studying her face before deciding to let it go.

“There’s another letter for you,” he said offhandedly as he returned to his own, sliding the envelopes toward her. One was in Professor Dumbledore’s flamboyant ink. It was oddly weighted and a badge fell out as she opened it.

The badge was red enamel and gold border with a ‘P’ on the front. She grinned, all of her recent worries momentarily lifting as she held it aloft.

“Ha!” Draco held his own, black and yellow, beside it. “I knew you’d be a prefect. Now we just have to aim for the Heads.”

She rolled her fawn-brown eyes at that. “Like there is any competition?” 

He shook his head at her faux confidence; she really was a shoe-in, whatever she may think. Hermione Granger, most brilliant student in decades, rule-abiding (mostly), eager to help… Draco couldn’t imagine them giving the spot to anyone else.

“What’s the other letter?”

Hermione pressed it to her chest. She had immediately recognized the efficient, perfect penmanship that was Professor Riddle’s. “I am assisting in some research.”

“A professor?”

She pursed her lips. “Yes.”

“Which professor?”

“Really, Draco, can’t I do anything in private?” she needled, turning red.

She saw the spread of his lips as he said, “It’s Professor Riddle, isn’t it?”

“Draco!”

“Alright,” he acquiesced. “But everyone knows you’re his favorite student. And I, at least, know he’s your favorite professor.”

She didn’t respond, sipping her tea instead. It was darkly steeped and touched with cream. Hermione would wait until she was alone in her room to open the missive from Professor Riddle. And for this moment she would focus on breaking fast with Draco and celebrating the two of them becoming prefects.

_ Hermione, _

_ I trust your summer holiday has gone well and that you are celebrating your newest title. I’d be remiss if I did not appropriately congratulate you. Thus: _

_ Congratulations on your status as Gryffindor’s newest Prefect! There is no one more deserving. _

_ Now, dearest, we have some business to attend to. We need to set a schedule for the DADA club’s meetings (and possibly come up with a more practical name; I will entrust that to your capable mind), as well as an itinerary.  _

_ I would like to work closely with you on this; I know your academic knowledge of defense is among the highest of your year, if not among all the students of Hogwarts. However, and take this not as a slight against you, but as an opportunity, your practical skills (while admirable) could be improved. I would like to meet with you once weekly so that we may elevate them to the level I  _ know _ you can reach.  _

_ We can discuss this after the feast, should your duties not monopolize your time. Otherwise, send me your schedule at your earliest ability (not your class schedule, love, but that immaculate personal schedule you must make every year to ensure adequate study time). We will make you the greatest Defense student of your era under my tutelage. _

_ Let me know if there is anything you should need. I shall be sending some advanced reading on the Dark Arts and defense. I expect you’ll read them long before the semester begins, my brilliant girl. _

_ Always, _

_ T.M.R. _

_ Professor of DADA _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _

Hermione’s heart felt too large for her chest as she finished the letter, her professor’s words echoing in her head. It was far too easy to hear it all in Tom Riddle’s smooth cadence, and her stomach swooped at the endearments and compliments sprinkled throughout.

She was “his brilliant girl,” “dearest,” “love.” And he was going to privately tutor her! That enough was to overshadow the acknowledgement that Hermione was not the best at the subject. But he would make her the best. A promise from Tom Riddle was as good as done. 

Hermione read and re-read the letter, practically squealing when she realized he was also going to send her books. Some of those books were about the dark arts.

“Oh. my.” The weight of that hit her fully. Hermione was no stranger to dark books; the Malfoy library had a whole section on them. However, many were cursed and she knew better than to try and touch them. Most of the Malfoy ancestors had detested muggles and muggleborns, so some of the curses were specifically aimed at her status. Since that whole area was drenched in dark magic to the point it was hard to pin which might be safe to peruse, she avoided them all other than skimming the titles.

And dark books were kept in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. This would be her first real exposure to the topic. 

That night Hermione’s dreams were full of Tom Riddle’s smooth voice, Lucius Malfoy’s snake-head cane, and books in flight all around her.

\---

“But father, why are you taking us to Kings Cross?” Draco queried as the patriarch guided the two students to gather their belongings.

Lucius Malfoy’s jaw was sternly set. “Your mother is spending time with her sister as Bella will be returning home tomorrow.” He’d been cooler with his son the last few years; since the sorting, truthfully. 

Draco should have been a Slytherin. It was in his blood. While there may have been deviations in his wife’s family, there were none in the Malfoy lineage. Perhaps he could have overlooked a Ravenclaw in the family, but a  _ Hufflepuff _ of all things! 

Lucius eyed the reason why, smoothing over his features to hide his contempt. Bella was right; this insidious little mudblood was poisoning his household. Draco was a badger and his wife doted on the girl as she would a daughter. And he, Lucius Malfoy, had enabled it all.

As head of his house, he should have set the tone for Hermione’s treatment. Yes, since she was acting as a companion to Draco and the whole punishment to her in lieu of him had worked tremendously, he also should have made it clear the girl was not one of them. She should have been treated like an instrument or a pet.

Yes, a pet. It was natural to have fondness for one’s pets, even if those pets served an important purpose other than companionship. Lucius was fond of his hunting crups, after all. Perhaps…

His eyes became more speculative as he watched the girl tugging her trunk along. Draco had picked her out of the orphanage like one might a pup; she was chosen for her intelligence and good manners. 

Despite the recent Gryffindor fire he needed to put out, she was an ideal specimen of a mudblood. She was healthy and well-groomed, and knew how to behave in public. She might require a bit more training in how to approach her betters, but that could be easily remedied when next she returned home. 

And she was… attractive. In the way one’s pet should be aesthetically pleasing, of course. 

_ An ideal mudblood _ , he chuckled to himself. Now that  _ was _ an amusing concept.  _ If only there was a way to make them that way. _

An idea came to him and he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, folks, we are diving down into the rabbit hole now. Well and truly.
> 
> You can find me on the Tweeter @FaroreF


	16. Higher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifth year begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to start the 'year.'

Hermione straightened her robes as she stared at the door. It was an hour before curfew and she was finally finished with her duties. As one of the two newest Gryffindor prefects she had had to help the first years before left to her own devices. Then there was the division of labor for typical duties, giving the boys their study schedules (Ron had summarily shoved his away and Harry had done her the courtesy of pretending to be interested; she had reminded him that he was a prefect now too and he had to present himself as such).

After telling herself there were no more excuses, she rapped on the wooden office door. It opened of its own accord, revealing the small, neat space of her favorite professor. 

“Hermione.” Tom Riddle smiled, his dark eyes sparkling at the girl as she stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a flick of his hand. “Sit, please. How was your summer?”

She blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze as it slid down to the shiny new badge. “It was fine, though I’m happy to be back. As always.”

“Looking forward to studying for your OWLs, I presume?” He chuckled, the warmth of it trickling like hot chocolate to her stomach. Had professor Riddle always been so blindingly handsome? She was sure he had, though the effect of his presence seemed magnified somehow. “Now, I’ve looked over the notes you sent. I rather like the idea of more advanced students working with those who could use more work on their defense abilities. And while I assume it will often fall along year lines, this will also reinforce the abilities of those who are ahead of their peers. And perhaps encourage those lagging behind to push forward.”

The praise lanced through her and she shrugged. “I just… well, I’ve seen some of the seventh years in practice and some could use work.”

“I quite agree.” 

Hermione shifted in her seat. “And, erm, our private lessons, Professor?”

“How would you feel about Saturdays? I know they are your free days, but that would give us a bit more freedom from constraints.”

Her jaw gaped. “Oh, no, I would love that! I mean.” She flushed down to her chest. “There’s no other way I’d like to spend my free time than, than, ah, studying. Bettering myself academically.”

His lips twitched. “I’m sure. Shall we begin this weekend then?” She nodded eagerly. “I’ll want to test your abilities at first, gain a proper understanding of where you are, sweetheart. While your theoretical understanding is perhaps beyond my seventh years, I’ve yet to fully assess your practical capabilities.”

The endearment nearly made Hermione faint. He’d called her that before, hadn’t he? Was it appropriate? Then again, Professor McGonagal regularly called her students things like “dear,” so why was this any different? 

“I know my practical abilities could use some work, but I've never been afraid of working hard,” she said evenly.

“That I know quite well.” He studied her quietly for a beat. “Tell me, will your… group of boys be joining the club?”

“The boys?” She blinked, brows twitching together. “Well, Draco is almost as studious as I am; I’m honestly surprised he wasn’t in Ravenclaw instead of Hufflepuff… though he _ should _ have been a Slytherin.” She shook her head free of that line of thought, Lucius Malfoy flashing through her mind in grim warning. “But the others? Well, Harry has it in his mind to be an Auror like his father, so he definitely will. And ROnald follows Harry, so I suppose he’s in as well. And Neville, well, he could use the help, though he’s really growing into his own lately. A little more confidence and I think he’d actually be quite a strong wizard.”

“Oh.” The professor lifted one of his perfect brows. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Longbottom was a member of your little crew.”

“He is a good friend; I help him in potions; he’s dreadfully afraid of Professor Snape-- oh, please don’t let on that you know, sir, he’d be mortified!” She clapped her hand over her mouth before removing it to plead with the man. 

“No worries, darling. I think it’s obvious in any case; Longbottom is not the bravest Gryffindor, is he?” Riddle patted her hand. “You are a kind young woman, to take him under your wing. Now, you should probably get to bed early if you want to get your usual early start tomorrow, hm?”

She pulled her attention away from where his cool long-fingered hand laid over her own much smaller. “Oh, yes. Well, thank you so much for meeting with me, Professor.”

“Tom,” he corrected.

“What?”

“Tom. If we are to be working together, it’s only fitting that you address me by name, yes? In private only, of course.” There was something sharp and tense lingering between them suddenly and Hermione could hardly breathe, but she nodded obediently.

“Yes. Tom,” she repeated softly. “Well, er, goodnight, Tom.”

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

“You’re getting tutored on a Saturday? You’re absolutely barmy, Mione,” tutted the redhead. 

“Some of us _ enjoy _ bettering ourselves, Ronald,” she responded coolly as she applied butter to her toast. “Besides, learning straight from Professor Riddle one-on-one? It’s practically a dream come true.”

“Ah, yes, Professor Riddle,” came a voice behind her. “He’s just the dreamiest, innit he, Freddie?”

"Too right, Georgie. Why, he’s even more handsome than Viktor Krum.”

Her doe-brown eyes narrowed as a hand swept in to pluck the apple from her plate. “I just wish he’d pay me the same attention. You know, I tried for months last year to catch his eye and all i got was a lousy detention with Filch.”

“Alas, George, he has eyes only for our Hermione.”

“If you’re done mocking me,” she said, head held high, “perhaps you’d like to know that the reason Professor Riddle is tutoring me is so I can help him in my role as student assistant for the defense club he’s starting this year.”

“Student assistant!” one gasped.

“The absolute honor, higher even than prefect.”

“Can you imagine, George?”

“Not in my wildest.”

“Are you two going to be joining? We’ll be having dueling tournaments throughout the year and everything,” she informed.

The twin with her apple shrugged. “Dunno. We kinda have our own thing going on this year, Mione,” he said around a chunk of half masticated pulp.

Harry groaned beside her. “Just please don’t do whatever it is around us. I’m a bloody prefect this year and I’d rather not have to explain to mum why I’m the first in history to get demoted.”

The twin without the apple shook his head in disappointment. “The absolute shame of it, the child of the Great and Noble Prongs not involved in Gryffindor mischief.”

“Well,” said the other, nudging his twin. “Not openly.” They shared a smile before winking at the bespectacled boy.

“Harry,” Hermione warned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he griped. “I promise I won’t get in too much trouble this year. And I won’t leave you doing all the work either, I guess.”

It was a well known fact among the friends of Harry Potter that his father was one of the legendary Marauders, heroes to all mischief makers at the school. His godfather was another, and their family friend Remus Lupin was yet a third. Only Hermione, Ron, and Harry himself knew that the latter was a werewolf however; she hadn’t even told Draco. She’d guessed it while staying with the Potters for a week over one summer and Harry had begged her to keep it quiet, so she had.

“Harry’s going to be in the group,” she told the twins. “And Ron too.”

“Really, Ronnikins? Following in Perce’s footsteps after all?”

“Sod off,” he retorted, shrugging off the hand messing his hair.

“Some of us actually care about our futures,” she said.

George (at least she thought it was George) laid a hand on his chest. “We take offense to that, Granger. Freddie and I care very much.”

“Yeah.” Fred puffed himself up. “It just so happens that mischief is our future.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

The twins turned to one another, communicating with brow twitches and eye movements. “We’ve said too much,” said one.

“We will be going now,” said the other.

And off they went.

Hermione shook her head. Those two were going to be the death of Molly Weasley at the rate they were going.

“Right, well,” said Ron once his brothers had disappeared. “What’ve we got first this morning?”

“History of Magic,” Hermione said evenly. Both boys groaned. “Oh, buck up. You have Divination after lunch, so you’ll be able to skive off then.”

“That’s not bad then.” He perked up.

“Double potions before lunch, though, mate,” Harry pointed out. Ron’s bubble burst and the fellow Gryffindor attempted to sink into his robes in misery.

“Double Defense to end the day,” Hermione sang.

“Yeah, yeah,” the dejected boy grumbled. “Let’s get this over with then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to post regularly. There will be more Tom from here on out.


	17. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets for a private lesson with Professor Riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is finally getting there. Mwahahahaaa!

He’d sent an owl to meet in the empty classroom which he had cleared for the purpose. It was on the larger side, dusty from disuse. Tom had always wondered if there was a time the castle had ever filled the space allotted to it; it seemed every year there were fewer students roaming the halls. 

He dispersed the dust, vanished the useless furniture, and transfigured the teacher’s desk into a thick mat for dueling. By the time the shy knock sounded exactly seven minutes before the appointed time, the stage was set.

“Enter.”

She was in a light robe thrown over a blouse and fitted trousers, every inch the pureblood ward. 

“Hermione.” He smiled at her, widening to a grin when she blushed prettily at his welcome. “No need for robes today. I’ll be inspecting your form first, and they may get in the way.”

“Of course, professor.” She swept off the lengthy cloth and draped it over a chair he’d left for that purpose; his own was already set there as well. 

Tom allowed himself to look over the girl as she was distracted; Hermione would turn sixteen this month, and she had bloomed further during the long summer. Her long hair was glossy with care, the curls tamer with weight as they fell to her waist. She was braiding it now, and twisting that into a bun on the back of her head. It was streaked with honey blonde from the sun, her skin dusted with freckles and tanned to a warm peach. Her breasts sat high under the silky white blouse, and the high-waisted trousers emphasized the smallness of her waist and the soft curve of her hips. 

“Now, show me your dueling stance.”

It had been some time since they had covered dueling; this little club would be the first time most of them would duel in truth, as that was typically reserved for seventh years. Horace believed it would be too limited for younger students and too dangerous for those who weren’t or would not soon be adults. It had taken only a little effort on his part to get special dispensation for the club.

“Mm, you want to bring your non-dominant foot back and in line with the other, create a smaller target for your opponent.” She circled the leg back. “Wand up so any shield you cast will be in place in front of you. Now keep your weight evenly on your feet. Many assume you want to be on the balls of your feet for quickness, but you are harder to knock over if you’re balanced.”

Tom walked around her, hand on the flat of her back to help nudge her in place. “Cast the stinging hex.”

Her shoulders squared up. “Stupefy!”

He nodded as the practice dummy flew into the wall. “Not bad. But would you like to hear a secret?”

Her doe brown eyes lit with eagerness. “Please, professor,” she implored.

“You are thinking of your wand as a tool. And it is, of course.” Tom slipped into lecture mode as he raised his own wand and twirled it before her. “It is a conduit for our magic, an amplifier and focus. It helps us direct, shape, and increase our spellwork. But the magic does not come from the wand; it comes from within us and moves through the wand.” Tom gestured silently, his arm moving elegantly and a red spark flew at the dummy, the fluff inside the limp thing bursting. “But your wand is not  _ just  _ a tool, Hermione.” Her lips were parted, breaths shallow, so enraptured. “It is an extension of self. And you should treat it as such. Do not cast with a flick of the wrist. Put your whole self into it. And you will find your magic further amplified.”

He tipped her chin up with the tip of his bone white wand. “Do you think you can do that?”

A pink tongue flitted across Hermione’s bottom lip. “I can try.” Her voice was soft, intimate. It made the corner of his mouth tug up in a smirk. 

“That’s my girl.” He stepped away and she seemed to deflate with the removal of his wand, her breath rushing out of her. Tom absently righted and repaired their practice dummy, eyes never leaving the girl.

Hermione blinked, righting herself and turning to the dummy. Her eyes fluttered shut, the smallest frown forming between her brows as she got into position, wand up before her. When her eyes opened once more, she seemed determined. With a swish of her wand, she cried out, “Stupefy!”

It knocked against the wall violently, certainly more powerful than previously, but not significantly.

“You’re too tense,” he murmured, stalking around her. “You need to relax, Hermione. You need to feel your magic, trust it. It’s there. You don’t need to force it through your wand. You need to let it flow.” 

This time his wand was tucked away and his hands laid on her shoulders. She flinched slightly under his touch and Tom resisted the urge to clench his jaw; she was perhaps not used to casual touch, he had to move slowly with the girl.

His thumbs massaged into her trapezius muscles, urging her to relax in his grip. “I know there is power locked away in there, Hermione. It shows in your perfect control, how your spells always hit their mark. And it shows in that fiery Gryffindor temper of yours, flaring out around you with your wild curls.”

“Really?” It was more of a whisper than anything, her insecurities written across her face.

“Yes, dear girl. You're stronger than you know, stronger than the paltry restrictions your pureblood masters would place on you.” Her breath hitched. “I would see you find that power within yourself and learn how to harness it.”

“You make it look so simple,” she countered.

“Years of practice.” The downplay came smoothly to his lips; Tom had had a muggle lifespan practically to blend in among the rest of the wizarding world. He might plan for the little witch to see the truth someday, but she was not quite there yet. “Now, sweetheart, try again.”

He had her fling the spell at the practice dummy until her beauty charms wore off and her hair fuzzed out of the tight braid in defiance, until a vein pounded in her forehead with frustration, until the poor girl was ready to toss her wand across the room.

“You are attempting to learn a new way to cast,” he reminded her gently as they leaned against side-by-side desks. “It won’t happen in a day.”

“I could cast spells when I first got my wand and spell books,” she complained.

It was adorable, really, her eagerness to prove herself. As well as her abilities in magic, of course. But that fire was the core of who she was. Had the girl not been muggleborn, she might have made a decent Slytherin.

“This is more than that, Hermione.” He stroked an arm down her back, relishing the smooth silk over her warm skin. Tom didn’t produce much warmth himself, so the girl nearly burned hot as she was with exertion. “Have you ever been particularly athletic?” At her flush, he smirked. “As I thought. You’re using your whole body. Dueling isn’t just mental and magical, sweetheart. It is intrinsically physical as well. And you have not cultivated your body quite the same as you have your mind.”

She was chewing on her bottom lip in a most unladylike way, a habit he had noticed she disliked in herself, given how Hermione would freeze, flush, and otherwise carefully monitor her mannerisms when she caught herself doing it. “I take care of myself.”

He hummed, eyes flicking down her shapely form and back to meet her abashed gaze. “I’m sure you do. And you’re hardly in poor shape, darling. Running up and down these stairs all day does wonders. But you could still benefit from exercise. Running, swimming, stretching. Anything that works agility and endurance.”

She nodded earnestly up at him, head tipped to one side, showing the long line of one muscle, eyes wide. 

“It will help. I take a run myself every other day, and swim in the lake when I can manage the time.”

“You do?” She went to bite her lip again, but paused. “Do you think, sir, maybe…”

One brow quirked in encouragement.

“Perhaps I could run with you sometimes?”

Tom practically purred. “You know, that is an excellent idea, Hermione. Shall we start with once a week while you get used to it? As you progress, we can add in more time, sprints, et cetera.”

Hermione glowed. “Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you so much. For-- for all of this.”

Tom stroked a hand over her shoulder. “You are a remarkable young woman, Hermione. You deserve this and much more.” Her cheeks stained red again and something flinched about her eyes. “Do you not realize that?” He tipped her chin up when she tried to look away, fingers gentle against her smooth skin; it wouldn't do to frighten her.

“I know I’m smart. Academically, I mean,” she amended hurriedly. “And I work hard to ensure my grades stay high, and that I perform to the highest of my ability. But I know I’m not much of a witch naturally. It’s all hard work. And I cause problems. Harry, Ron, Draco and I get into trouble. And I cause as much at home as Draco does. More, maybe.” Her eyes shone suddenly, almost staring through him.

“Did something happen this summer?”

She blinked, refocusing on him as the tears spilled over. “Oh.” Hermione pulled back, hastily wiping away the tears. “Nothing. Really.”

The hand that had been on her shoulder tightened, the other flying up to mirror it, holding her near him. “Did Malfoy do something? I was under the assumption that he thought of you as a sister.”

She jolted in his grasp. “He does! Draco didn’t do anything. He wasn’t even there.”

Tom rolled his jaw, lowering his face closer to hers and staring into those deep brown eyes. “What. Happened.”

“Please, sir,” she murmured. “It’s nothing--”

“Don’t lie,” he hissed. “I despise liars, Hermione. You don’t want me to despise  _ you,  _ do you?” She shook her head minutely, as though afraid to turn her head too much away from him, frozen by his stare. “Now, tell me.”

She glanced down, eyes flicking back up instantly when his fingers tightened just a little on her small frame. He would have shaken her, but he could see her piecing together the words, trying to push them into sentences. A flash of pain and, even more intense, humiliation screamed through her mind to him and his nostrils flared.

“I…” she began, then swallowed. “One of Lady Narcissa’s sisters visited, and she and I got into a bit of a, er, tiff. I threatened her, and Lord Malfoy--” he noted her use of surname for the man, whereas she was more familiar, affectionate, speaking about the woman-- “saw and punished me. That’s all.”

“Is it?” Tom lifted a brow. “How did he  _ punish _ you, Hermione?”

This was the crux of the situation, he could see it in the way her pulse nearly jumped in her throat. Tom’s thumbs soothed along her collarbones, inching toward where the collar of the shirt ended and her warm flesh shone.

“He, erm, used his cane.” The words became softer until the last was only breathed in the air between them.

“He used what?” Tom’s voice was deadly-low. 

“His cane?” Her eyes danced down to stare at his throat rather than his own gaze. Tom had to remind himself she was still a soft little thing, and eased the grip of his hands a touch.

“He caned you?” the man repeated. She bobbed her head. “He did it standing, had you lean against the wall? How did he cane you and where?”

Her hands slid down her thighs. “Not exactly.” 

Tom was growing weary of her hedging around the topic. “Tell me everything, or I will go in and fetch the details myself.”

Her breath caught, but she nodded, more tears falling across her cheeks. She was such a quiet little thing, hardly making a noise. He vaguely wondered if she was always so silent in distress. 

He was so patient, so very gentle with her in this moment, allowing her the time to put it all together for him. And he’d seen the belief in her eyes when he’d told her he would use legilimancy. That had been rash, but his girl had taken it in stride.

“He had me brace against a desk in the library. That’s where the altercation took place.” This part was not too difficult for her by the steady cadence of her voice, but she was trying to compartmentalize, trying to push down the pain. “Bellatrix insisted I pull up my skirt so I could feel the blows adequately. Since I threatened her and she is family.”?

“She watched, did she? She always was a little sadist, sent plenty of her peers to the infirmary when she was a student.” Tom had liked the darkness in her, though her pureblood obsession made her somewhat unreasonable at times. She had only begun respecting him when she heard a rumor Tom only allowed to circulate among the Slytherins. 

“Yes, she was practically goading him.” Hermione’s nose wrinkled in distaste. 

“What did you do to provoke her, hm?” It mustn’t have been difficult with Bellatrix’s infamous temper.

“ _ She _ provoked  _ me, _ ” she insisted. “Kept calling me a--” Hermione shook her head. “Implied my magic was not good enough to defend myself as well. So I raised my wand and said that I am not without talent, and Lord Malfoy saw, and that was that.”

Tom huffed out a chuckle and stroked her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “You most certainly are talented, Hermione. And they would do well to be wary of invoking the wrath of a witch such as you.”

Her lips parted, pupils blowing wide to shadow those sweet brown eyes. “I’m not…”

“You  _ are _ , sweetheart. You are a force, Hermione.” Tom sang to her, voice deep and eyes burning into hers. “Someday witches and wizards will fall over themselves to proclaim your brilliance. You just need to learn how to let your power out.”

All throughout the little speech Tom’s hand was roving, ghosting over her jaw and down her throat, dancing at the notch where her collarbones met, trailing so that, at that last word, he laid his palm against her thumping heart.

“Will you let me help you, Hermione?” Her nod was drunken with his words. “Will you help me change this world so it will recognize you for what you are? Will you stand with me against this unjust system?”

“Yes,” she promised.

He smiled, thumb once more sliding over her softness. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get better at responding to comments. Just know that I appreciate them all, even if I don't respond.


	18. Only the Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius attends a political meeting and discusses his newest idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is done waaaay early, but i wanted to thank everyone who has been following along. Honestly, I did not expect so many readers. Thanks for hanging in there. And yes, we are getting to the core of the story.

“Did you have something to add, Lucius?”

The pale man tapped his cane ponderously against the floor. “If it’s not too much trouble, Augustus?”

Rookwood was currently an Unspeakable at the ministry, department head and looking to rise in the ministry. While he was theoretically the head of their little group, it was understood that Bellatrix was the driving force. She cultivated the members, eased them into the meetings, and drove the ideas, as well as backing those she particularly liked quite vocally. 

“Please.” The other man swept an open hand in welcome.

“Well.” Lucius was sprawled in his chair, but slowly unfolded and rose to his full height. “We have spoken of the proper place for mudbloods, as a servile force beneath a pure class. And we have talked about sterilizing those muggles who produce mudbloods once we’ve tracked them down, lest they force more upon us.” 

The men-- for Bella was the only woman currently among them-- nodded and murmured agreement.  _ Her _ eyes were practically glowing with delight; they’d spoken about his ideas before this little presentation.

“But what should happen if we sterilize the mudbloods as well? Are we to go back to the lowly jobs that cannot be done by house elves, but are so beneath us?” He turned in a slow circle, considering each member in turn. Here they were, scions of the 28, all of them holding the majority of the power and wealth among Wizarding Britain. “No, we need to ensure the continuance  _ only _ of the mudbloods most suited for service.”

“You can’t be saying we allow them to breed, Lu.”

“Ah, Antonin,” he purred. “Dear old friend. Of course they should breed; but only in so far as we control it. We breed the most servile mudbloods with one another as we do house elves or crups. Eventually they will all know their place and retain it on instinct.”

“And what about those deviants who produce halfbloods?” said the ancient Lord Black.

His lips curled into a cruel smile. “Any child born of a mudblood mother will be classified as such. And any child found to have a mudblood father will also be declared when found. We fine the families to poverty for denying the liege family of the mudblood a servant. No one will dare. Only special dispensation will be given if a mudblood child can be proven more than fifty percent wizarding stock.”

Enlightenment widened Rodolphus’ eyes. “We’d be breeding them into a controlled population.”

“That is the idea, yes,” Lucius crooned. “What do you think, honorable leaders of wizarding kind? Shall we endeavor to push through these changes for our society?”

There was blanket agreement as the idea took hold; they would be lords once more in more in the true meaning of the word, owed allegiance and service of a lower class that would amount to serfs. Who among them would not desire such?

The meeting broke up soon thereafter, the men drifting away in small groups to discuss other business. Bellatrix sashayed to him, her husband sipping wine and chattering with his brother, hardly turning an eye to watch his wife.

“So, Lucius, you’ve thought on this quite a bit more since we last talked, haven’t you?” She pouted those generous burgundy lips at him, just hinting at a smile. “What else have you decided?”

Lucius chuckled. She was a shameless woman, something repulsive in a partner, but refreshing in certain other respects. What a man she would have made. “Not much more than that, I fear.”

She trailed the edge of her wine goblet under her fat bottom lip. “You haven’t found the perfect stud for your mudblood yet?”

He considered her, brow raised and fingers drumming against the arm of his seat. “What mischief are you suggesting now, Bella?”

The woman leaned against the scrolling elegance of the chair’s arm. “Such interesting details, fifty one percent? More than half. Essentially getting rid of the idea of halfbloods entirely, but still allowing for the weaknesses of men.”

The shapely line of her cleavage was at the level of his eye, no doubt intentional. Bellatrix was half mad in her zealotry, and a creature of her appetites, but she was also intelligent and viciously predatory. Too many had underestimated her and paid the price. “And women. How is your niece?”

At mention of the metamorphmagus halfblood, she hissed. “Not nice, brother of mine. Not nice at all.”

He hummed. “If she breeds with a pureblood, perhaps her child can be added into the Black family line. Is that not glad tidings? Your cousin does not seem the sort to breed well.”

Regulus Black should have been wed and expecting an heir at this point at the least. But the man had managed to avoid marriage, his mother doting on her only heir (after having disowned the other for his blood traitor ways).

“It doesn’t seem likely,” the witch responded coolly. “But we are not discussing my family; lucy, we are discussing  _ yours. _ ”

He rolled his jaw. “Hermione is my ward, not my family.”

“Does Draco know that? Or my sister, for that matter.”

“You have a point, Bella, or are you trying to rile me up?”

A finger slid up the thick black material covering his bicep. “Your breeding program. You were inspired by something, I assume, and I had thought perhaps it was your mudblood that had such notions swirling in your head. Despite her little infraction during my visit, she is a well-trained little thing, isn’t she?” He tipped his in acknowledgement. “No doubt you wondered how other mudbloods might be made as docile, and came to the conclusion all good breeders of livestock inevitably do: blood. We recognize it in every other creature, why not mudbloods.”

“And you’ve agreed,” he drawled.

“Thus, as originator of this idea, I thought you might also start in your own home. So who are you considering?”

Lucius considered his reply; he had glanced through prospective partners for the girl, but there was a disappointing dearth of potential. Those who were not married away were either too rebellious, as was the case with a musician roughly a decade older than his mudblood, or too stupid and lacking in any possibly redeeming traits, such as the boys currently at school with his son. 

It seemed Draco had chosen well all those years ago; Malfoys should have only the best, and his son had procured for the family the best mudblood.

“We shall have to decide who has rights to mudblood progeny,” Lucius mused. “The mother’s guardians or the father’s. They are not heirs, as such, but still…”

Bella was staring into him with those liquid black eyes. “Worried about losing your girl?”

“She is the best among the low born,” Lucius huffed. “And if she is well-bred, her child will be the same. I would not leave my house with a less than stellar asset.”

Her fingers played at the ends of his hair where it rested against his shoulders. “Then do not look only at mudbloods. More than fifty one percent was the agreed upon amount. Halfbloods, bloodtraitors willing to sell off one of their little leeches? The Weasleys have a palatable enough boy. He’s at the Ministry now as some errand boy, but more than happy to scurry after his betters.”

His nose wrinkled in disgust. “A  _ Weasley _ . Honestly, Bellatrix, are you trying to make me sick? No, that one is a freak mutation from their ill reputed bloodline. I want to improve the quality of my stock, not riddle it with muggle obsession.”

A laugh like the sweet melody of church bells rang over him. “She’s not a bad looking little thing, for what she is,” the woman remarked, gazing over Lucius’ head in thought. “I wonder if I could convince Sirius to give her a shag or two,  _ he’s _ the freak in our family. And you can’t complain about the Black breeding stock.”

“One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?” This was proving to be quite the mental exercise. “You would sully your line?”

She scoffed, affronted. “Not at all! Perhaps a private breeding could be arranged. Unless a permanent partnership is arranged, why shouldn’t those responsible for their mudbloods have the ability to breed them privately. Only those involved in the act need be privy to the details.”

“But a pureblood.” He tapped his cane on the floor. “Merlin forbid  _ that _ child does the same.”

“You  _ did _ say we should breed them like crups, did you not?” Her red tongue slipped across her lips to lick away the remnants of a sip of wine. “Keep the pedigree locked away, let no one know the secret of producing high quality mudbloods.”

“You would know,” he murmured, glancing askance at her. 

A wicked smile unfurled across her face as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. “But I know how to keep a secret. Haven’t I proven that, darling?”

Lucius’ nostrils flared at the reminder. It had been a moment of weakness, passion overwhelming reason as the two had fought with tongues first through words and progressed to sharing breath. Bella was beautiful and Lucius was hardly expected to stay faithful in sexual relations; only familial loyalty mattered. He would never sire a bastard who could argue the legitimacy of Draco’s claim, nor ever fail to provide for Narcissa. Still, it had left a bad taste in his mouth, coupling with Bellatrix. Since confirming his attraction, she had done her best to weaponize her luscious body.

He favored her with the fullness of his attention. Bellatrix’ eyes flitted between his own and his mouth, simmering with violent, succulent promises. “After all, Malfoys deserve  _ only the best.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you can see where I'm going... there's reason for the tags. If there are any tags you think I should add along the way, feel free to drop a comment.


	19. Best Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of the DA!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a new writing cycle I'm trying to keep up with. We'll see how it works. hoping for at least bi-monthly updates.

“Excellent, Potter!”

Harry flushed under the professor’s praise. He had a natural proclivity for Defense which had started to peek through his lazy persona as he stepped up to the challenge of the Defense Association. His stag Patronus pranced through the room, horned crown cutting through the air at every beat.

“That was spectacular, Harry,” Hermione echoed, wrapping an arm around her best friend in glee. “That was, what, your third try?”

The blushing young man ran a hand through his ever-messy hair. “I think so? I’ve had some fantastic teachers to guide me. Really, Hermione, your wand work has gotten brilliant. Maybe I should ask Professor Riddle for some private lessons.”

“I don’t know if I could handle you one-on-one, Potter. I worry I’d find myself waking up in Brazil after, courtesy of you and your infamous pranks.” Riddle’s cobalt eyes flitted between the two students and it was Hermione’s turn to blush.

As Potter turned back to his Patronus, Riddle gently brushed Hermione’s hair behind her back. “And you, Hermione? What shape has your Patronus taken?”

Her cheeks flushed hot, chin tipped down in shame. “I have not managed a corporeal Patronus as of yet.”

His warm hand dipped into her vision and cupped her jaw, lifting until her warm eyes locked with his. The world was narrowed in that moment; the other club members were distracted by flashes of light and dancing, fanciful creatures. One cool thumb stroked along her cheek, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You know, sweetheart, not every witch or wizard is capable of casting the Patronus charm. Strong wizards.” She looked a question at him and he acceded with a gentle nod. 

“But-- why?”

“Hm.” The low hum danced along her spine as she thrilled under the force of his attention. “Patronuses require a certain amount of joy and purity. I have never experienced a moment of joy and light pure enough to overcome the otherwise darkness of my life. You see, I was an orphan, born among muggles.”

The soft, “Oh,” that fell from her lips held all the understanding of one who has walked through parallel hardships. 

He made to speak again, but chaos broke out complete with the yells of angry teenage boys, so he extricated himself to deal with the skirmish. The Weasley twins’ magpies were darting and flittering around Blaise Zabini’s elegantly hovering black swan. The pair themselves were egging the boy on, trying to get him to retaliate, but the professor made quick work of them.

Hermione set about correcting stances and encouraging peers, puzzling over the mystery that was Tom Riddle all the while. He had implied the two of them were tied by their unfortunate pasts. Hermione had been told since she came to the Malfoys how fortunate she was, privileged among her kind. The Malfoy family spoiled her, took seriously the duty of raising her properly so she reflected back their generosity and nobility. And she  _ was _ well-raised, had rarely (and here her stomach jolted in remembrance) received punishment for her own transgressions. People often complimented Narcissa on her bearing. Hermione was sure she could receive the proper recommendations to have a career of some sort, rare though they were in those of her blood status. 

But the words he had used… Hermione was not sure what qualified as pure in terms of magic; unicorns would still approach her and she was still innocent in most ways. Joy and lightness, however, were more difficult.

She rode with Draco, horses both winged and grounded (much preferring the latter, thank you very much), had obscure books readily at her fingertips, attended galas and charity auctions. 

And every happy moment was laced with the knowledge that she was there at the sufferance of the Malfoy family and wizarding society itself. 

Had Professor Riddle been left in the orphanage after his incidents of accidental magic, or had he gone to an institution. He was unbelievably handsome and somehow more intelligent than beautiful; she could not imagine any family looking to sponsor a child would pass him by. It was only by happenstance that the Malfoys chose her over another child. Had a young Tom Riddle been among the children of the institution, they would have plucked him from mundanity and raised him to his appropriate position.

He was undoubtedly brilliant in every way, perhaps as brilliant as Professor Dumbledore, yet he had little other accomplishments outside his illustrious teaching.

Hermione was still pondering her professor as the other students trickled out. She transfigured dummies back into desks, lining them appropriately with little flicks and barest murmurs.

“What spells have you mastered nonverbally?”

Hot breath stirred the little hair at her nape and the blood in her veins leapt; she peered back at her professor, surprised not only at his proximity, but also at the way his body curved toward hers so his lips were inches from her throat.

“A few,” she admitted, cheeks blossoming, ears rosy. “Lumos and finite and reparo. Lower level spells.”

He considered her with those cool, marble perfect features. “What are the principles of spellcasting?”

Hermione squinted before Narcissa’s training smoothed her brow. “Wand movement, incantation, concentration, and intention.”

As he gently guided her to sit, himself leaning against the desk before her, he said, “How does wandless magic work, then?”

“Well,” she mused, “I suppose more would have to go into incantation, concentration, and intention?”

Riddle nodded. “And nonverbal?”

“The same, but wand movement replacing incantation. Though I suppose thinking the word links to both it and intention. Perhaps concentration as well.”

He considered her with the eerily blank face she had only seen when they were discussing magical theory outside of class; his features were neutral as a Roman bust, though his eyes were wells, hungrily drawing in rather than quenching. As Hermione pronounced the final word, Riddle held an empty palm toward the room. His eyes never leaving hers, a book whipped into the expectant hand.

“What do you think is at the root of magic, Hermione? Where does the first burst of accidental magic manifest? Is it just a burst to relieve pressure? Think of your own, and those your peers have imparted. A bullied child may find those who harm him falling over themselves; a girl whose mother chops her hair short might find it suddenly grown back. Are these random?” She was breathless and doe-eyed as she shook her head with him. “No. They are the yearnings of children incapable of accomplishing what they desire on their own. And so the desire feeds into intent, and the magic springs forth to grant their wishes.”

A flash of a memory, the coffee table waist-high to a little Hermione as she stared longingly at the bookshelf.  _ That _ was the book she wanted, the book her father promised her he’d let her read tomorrow. When he could help her as the vocabulary might be too advanced for a four-year-old. She’d fallen asleep with it that night.

A soft brush against her cheek drew Hermione from her past and she blinked up at her professor. He had set aside the book, entirely focused on her.

“At its core, magic is strength of will, determination. A truly powerful wizard can create a spell from intent alone, should he have the strength to shape the magic to his will.”

Hazy with the clean pine and citrus and firelight scent of him, the strange weight of his nearness, the force of his consideration, Hermione was near breathless. A question fluttered behind her eyes and he canted his head, raised a brow. “Do you think,” Hermione faltered. “Do you think perhaps one day I might…”

“I think.” He leaned toward her, voice low, intimating, “Hermione, that you will someday be a with to make all who belittled, dismissed,  _ harmed _ you tremble.” 

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He saw into her and she swore she could almost feel him stroking the walls of her mind, brushing ermine-soft with a core of steel. “Professor…” Was that her voice? It was a whimper, shy and brimming with a word she could not find.

“Tom.” She balked, cheek jerking in his embrace before it became iron. “Tom when we are alone.” The tension eased as her body remembered to breathe. “After all, we are working together toward a higher purpose now. Aren’t we, darling?”

The bobbing agreement could have been imaginary, it was so slight, but his lips curved into a severe smile. Tom’s thumb brushed the sensitive skin below her lips. “We will show them that it is not blood, but power, that makes a wizard. That a muggleborn or halfblood can achieve the greatest heights of what it offers. That  _ magic _ is might.”

  
  


It was not until Hermione had been discharged of her duties as his assistant and dreamily padded to Gryffindor tower, not until she had brushed out and braided her waist-length smokey curls, until she had changed into a nightgown and laid encased in the scarlet sanctuary of her bed, that Hermione wondered what her place in this new world might exactly be.

The intensity of his gaze darted through her like lightning, still alarmingly wonderful in memory. His perfect cupid’s bow lips had softened, his dark well-blue eyes had flicked to her mouth, and his thumb had stroked her cheek before he had finally drawn back from her. She had not imagined that. Her mind was not so fantastical that she could manufacture romantic ideations.

Did he, Hermione hesitated to ask herself,  _ want _ her?


End file.
